


Doubling the Recipe

by caloriebomb



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belly Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Everyone is a good bro except for Steve who's a lil brat, Fat Shaming, M/M, Personal Trainer Steve, Slow Burn, Veterans, Weight Gain, but the kinky consensual kind, chubby bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as Steve had worked at The Team gym (going on five years), he and Sam had taken it in turns to bring Monday treats – and for as long as he and Sam had lived with Bucky (almost a month, now), Bucky'd eaten them before they even made it out of the house. Last week, he'd eaten the whole batch of Sam's Peanut Butter Protein cookies, and the week before that he'd hoovered an entire pan of Steve's vegan Tofu Lemon Bars. </p><p>“Those brownies were made with coconut oil and black beans,” Steve said, trying to gross Bucky out retroactively, but Bucky just shrugged his good shoulder and licked his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sharing Space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SevereStorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/gifts), [wreckingthefinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/gifts).



> This is based on a prompt from SevereStorms, whose recent fic, "Halycon," made me verrry happy. I'm trying my hand at a WIP chaptered fic instead of my usual habit of writing enormous stories in one mad go, because I so appreciate that little hit of joy I get when I see an update from stories I've been following, and I hope to deliver a few hits of joy myself? (EDIT: apparently the prompt was thought-up by wreckingthefinite, whose current WIP "In Defense of Vanilla" is one of those stories I get all breathless for, so even better!) 
> 
> BEWARE! There will be kinky, exuberant, relentless fat-shaming throughout this story. If this might trigger or hurt you, please proceed with caution <3 
> 
> And if you've come for plot, vete a un convento, LOL.

Steve was no stranger to sharing space. 

He'd practically grown up in the Barnes household, for one thing; a two-bedroom apartment that'd just barely managed to hold five kids and their long-suffering single mom, not to mention Steve, though he'd been so tiny and sick back then he barely took up any space.

Then there was his year-long stint in the hospital, and the constant ebb and flow of roommates, some of them there for the same experimental program that Steve was, and some for more typical concerns like broken arms and concussions and once, memorably, a lung infection brought on by swallowing a marshmallow down the wrong pipe. 

Then college, and the sardine-can dorms. The less said about Steve's disastrous tie-dye wearing bed-humping freshman year roommate, the better.

Then, of course, the gym where Steve was now a personal trainer: the overcrowded group classes, the packed-full locker rooms, the queues for the weight machines...

And, finally, his new house: five twenty-somethings (including Bucky, back from the army in even better shape than Steve himself), three cats, a pizza-obsessed dog, and only one bathroom. 

Yeah, Steve knew how to share. 

The same could not be said for Bucky. 

“Isn't the army all about teamwork?” Steve asked in despair. “What part of FOR THE TEAM do you not understand?”

“I'm not on your team?” Bucky said, widening his big blue eyes sadly, an effect somewhat ruined by a chocolatey crumb still lingering on his lower lip. 

They were standing at the kitchen table in their new house, an empty glass pan between them. For as long as Steve had worked at The Team gym (going on five years), he and Sam had taken it in turns to bring Monday treats – and for as long as he and Sam had lived with Bucky (almost a month, now), Bucky'd eaten them before they even made it out of the house. Last week, he'd eaten the whole batch of Sam's Peanut Butter Protein cookies, and the week before that he'd hoovered an entire pan of Steve's vegan Tofu Lemon Bars. 

“Those brownies were made with coconut oil and black beans,” Steve said, trying to gross Bucky out retroactively, but Bucky just shrugged his good shoulder. 

“All your healthy shit always tastes fine to me.”

“Look," said Steve, changing tack, "those brownies may be healthy, but that doesn't mean they're not full of calories."

“When have I ever cared about calories?” Bucky said – and then, with a repentant sigh, “Look, I'm sorry. I really didn't see your note. I'll make you another pan, if you give me the recipe.”

“Oh, forget it,” Steve said, resigned, staring down at the licked-clean dish. “Were they any good, at least?”

“The best,” Bucky said earnestly. “Why do you think I couldn't leave any behind? I tried to stop, Stevie, I did – but you guys can really bake. Those brownies were like crack. I mean, have you ever had an MRE?”

“Yeah, you made me eat a beef stew one a couple years ago,” Steve said, shuddering to remember.

“So you see where I'm coming from.”

“Fine,” Steve relented. “Next time, I'll double the recipe, okay? One for you, one for the gym.”

Bucky beamed.

:::

It was funny – they hadn't been in close quarters for years, but living with Bucky in this house in Seattle felt just as comfortable and familiar as it had back in Brooklyn. Some things, of course, had changed. Steve was about eight inches taller and more than fifty pounds of muscle heavier, for starters, and Bucky was down an arm and jacked like a GI Joe doll, shoulders broader than Steve had ever seen them, chest like a brick wall. Physically and mentally, they'd both grown up. But their friendship had – against all odds – stayed the same: close, affectionate, teasing, and comforting. Home.

Their other three roommates were Sam, Natasha, and Clint, a strange mix of people that was so far working out much better than Steve had expected. Sam was Steve's buddy and co-trainer from The Team; Natasha had served with Bucky; and Clint was an old friend of Natasha's. (In his words, upon meeting Bucky: “Hey! Good to meet you. I'm Natasha's Steve.)

Only Clint was originally from Washington, and it was his house they'd all moved into, in a leafy neighborhood not far from downtown. Steve had a big pink-walled room with South-facing windows (perfect light for drawing) and Bucky was just down the hall – a fact that still felt like a gift, since he'd spent the five years of Bucky's deployment in a very mild state of constant panic. It was immeasurably reassuring to be able to check in on his best friend whenever he felt like it: to knock on the door in the morning and hear Bucky's sleep-grumpy voice; to text him all throughout the day; to leave plates of leftovers in the fridge for him when his night classes went long, or pack an extra bag of cookies into his backpack when he went off to his shitty tech-support day job.

A secret Steve would never tell Bucky: when he'd spoken to him on the phone right after the IED explosion, when Bucky was still in the hospital and reeling from trauma, and he'd said, “So Buck, what's next?” and Bucky had answered, no hesitation, “Guess I'll move to Seattle,” Steve had had to put down his cellphone and cry quietly for a moment before he could answer. 

And it was so unexpectedly delightful to watch Bucky adapt to the Seattle lifestyle. Going to farmer's markets and breweries, watching movies in the park, buying fancy coffee, trying on bougie flannel shirts... 

But goddamn, he wished Bucky would stop eating all his food.

“Is that my ice cream?” Steve demanded, dropping his gym bag by the front door. Bucky looked up guiltily from the pint he'd practically buried his face in, and licked the spoon. 

“Is it?” Bucky said. “I thought it was mine.”

“It's $7 Lavender-Earl Grey from Molly Moon's,” Steve said. “Your ice cream costs a buck and tastes like chalk.”

“I know, I know. But I ate all mine!”

“Not my problem.” 

“Well...” Bucky said, and showed Steve the empty container. “I kinda ate all yours, too. Sorry, pal.”

“You ate all my bacon yesterday.”

“Yeah. Sorry 'bout that, too.”

“And all my leftover pizza.”

“It was going bad!”

Steve shook his head, amused despite himself. “I was looking forward to that ice cream all day,” he said – untrue, but he wasn't ready to cut Bucky any slack just yet. 

“Aw, shit,” Bucky said, and stood up. “Let's walk and get a cone right now, then – my treat.”

It was a warm early-summer evening, the sky ablaze with orange and pink, and Steve and Bucky walked without hurry to the ice cream place a few blocks down. How many times had they walked on warm nights to get ice cream together? Steve wondered, and was suffused with a sense of complete well-being, so powerful he sighed a little. 

Bucky, on his right side – always his right side, these days, positioned so Steve filled the space of his missing arm – glanced at Steve with a little smile and said, “What?”

“Just thinking about what flavor I'm gonna get,” Steve said. 

“I'm gonna get chocolate and salted caramel,” Bucky said. “With peanuts. Maybe a sundae, even.”

“You already had ice cream.”

“So? You can't have too much ice cream!”

But later, as they walked back, Steve with a modest scoop of mint cookie and Bucky with a goopy five-scoop hot-fudge sundae, Steve found himself eyeing his friend with a faintly professional sense of appraisal. Considering it was part of Steve's job to assess and make adjustments to peoples' caloric intake, he shouldn't have been surprised to notice that Bucky was maybe – possibly? – putting on a little weight. But he was surprised, even though he knew, abstractly, that Bucky had been eating quite a bit lately. 

Bucky had come back from the army with a physique like a boot camp poster. Chiseled abs, enormous bicep, rock-hard pecs, firm thighs... he was big all over, barely an ounce of spare fat on him but thick with muscle, broad with strength. The time he'd spent in the hospital had barely softened him at all. And Steve had initially figured that, especially with two trainers as roommates, Bucky would keep up whatever exercises he'd clearly done as a soldier, but Bucky had not. In fact, he embraced his mostly-sedentary lifestyle with obvious relish. And it was starting to show. 

Now, for example, Steve could swear that Bucky's red henley was noticeably tighter than it had been just a few weeks ago, fabric beginning to cling to his belly, which was undeniably bulging outwards a little, a slight swell on his firm torso. Steve could have written it off as bloat, but Bucky was looking a little meatier around the hips, too, a vague curve of flesh over his (too?)tight jeans. And now that Steve was really looking, Bucky's face even seemed a tiny bit softer; a slight blurring of his jawline, a hint of extra skin below his chin. Softer arms, even. Pecs not made from solid stone anymore.

They got home and Bucky chucked his empty sundae cup into the trash, then immediately reached into the fridge and helped himself to a full leftover container of cold Pad Thai, bringing it into the living room with a 2-liter of Pepsi and flopping down on the couch next to Natasha, who was watching some kind of birding show. 

“Sup Nat,” Bucky said.

“Shhh,” she said, gesturing to the screen. “They're mating.”

Steve settled into the old armchair, one eye on the television and the other on Bucky, who was happily shoveling Pad Thai and swigging Pepsi, easily polishing off the entire container in just a few minutes. He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, and came back with a couple hot dogs wrapped in pieces of white bread, which he wolfed down just as fast, before leaning back into the couch cushions with a hard sigh and patting his belly absentmindedly. It was unmistakable now, the curve of his stomach – barely visible if you weren't looking for it, but Steve was looking. 

“You keep eating like that, you're gonna need to come into The Team for a few sessions with me or Sam,” Steve said, almost before he could stop himself. Nat gave him a curious, amused glance. 

“Ha!” Bucky said. “My training days are over, buddy.”

And then, as if to prove it, he went back into the kitchen and came out with a bag of Doritos.

“Hey!” Nat said. “Those are mine!”

“I'll share,” Bucky said graciously, and Natasha lunged at him, starting a tickling match that ended with Bucky lying on the ground, squirming and laughing and wheezing “Truce! Truce! Truce!” while Natasha mercilessly dug into his undeniably softer sides. Steve watched her fingers press ever-so-slightly into the minute pudge at his waist, and he found his mouth going a little dry at the sight. 

“I win,” Natasha said, holding the bag of Doritos aloft with a triumphant air – but still, Steve couldn't help but notice that Bucky finished the entire bag more or less by himself, anyway.

:::

And now that he'd noticed, he couldn't un-notice. Bucky, he realized, was eating near-constantly. He was always munching a candy bar or heating up a frozen burrito or slicing into a block of cheese, and the lunches Steve watched him pack for work were extravagant, to say the least: two roast beef and cheese sandwiches, a family-sized bag of potato chips, a banana, a couple Reese's cups, a carton of butterscotch pudding, and a 2-liter of Orange soda was pretty much the norm, with only minute variations. 

“Gotta watch it with the soda, pal,” Steve said, staring as Bucky poured glass after glass of root beer, doctoring it now and then with a spoonful of vanilla ice cream. “That stuff has more sugar than, well, sugar.”

“I floss,” Bucky said nonchalantly. 

“Not your teeth I'm worried about,” Steve muttered, and Bucky pretended not to hear him. 

A couple nights later they all ordered pizza and had dinner out on the porch, Lucky prancing hopefully at their feet, and he watched Bucky eat an entire medium pepperoni pizza and a hearty portion of breadsticks, plus a six-pack of porter. He was wearing that same red henley, sleeves rolled up past his strong forearms, and was it Steve's imagination or was it getting even tighter? Bucky was a big guy, broad and thick with muscle, but Steve was pretty sure he was looking thicker in ways that muscle couldn't quite excuse. His shirt was beginning to stretch a bit over his chest and stomach, especially in his current slumped position, with his belly a gentle rounding outpush and his navel just visible beneath the thin material. 

“Slow down there, killer,” Steve said, as Bucky reached for another breadstick. “You haven't even had dessert yet.”

“There's dessert?” Bucky said, eyes lighting up.

“I made blueberry pie,” Clint said. 

“Dude! I fuckin' love blueberry!” Bucky said. “We got any ice cream to go with that?”

“I can't understand you with your mouth full of breadsticks,” Clint said, and grinned as Bucky swallowed with some difficulty.

“We got vanilla,” Natasha said, signing at the same time for Clint's benefit. “And whipped cream.”

“None for me,” Sam said wistfully as they served it up a few minutes later. “I'm off sugar for the week. I'm trying to prove a point to my clients, but man, it's a lot harder than I thought it'd be! All I want is like ten donuts.”

“I volunteer to take his piece,” Bucky said, and Nat thwacked an enormous slice onto his plate, then covered it in a mound of ice cream and a mountain of whip. 

“Enjoy,” she said, giving him an affectionate smirk as he forked the first gigantic bite into his mouth. 

“Ugh,” Bucky moaned, cream on his lips. “This is,” gulp, “heavenly.”

For some reason, Steve couldn't look away. “Gotta be at least eight hundred calories on that plate,” he noted, and Nat rolled her eyes at him.

“Remind me again why I thought it was a good idea to live with trainers?” she said. “You two are such buzzkills.”

“Hey!” Sam said. “I'm not the one who went there with the calories.”

“Don't listen to them,” Clint said to Bucky, and brought his bunched hand to his lips in a sign that all of them knew at this point. “Eat!”

“I will,” Bucky said, and he did.

:::

Steve was in the middle of a workout when Alison, a junior trainer, came jogging up the stairs to where he was squatting in front of the mirror and said, “Hey, there's a guy downstairs looking for you. I didn't quite catch his name. Barry? Buggy?”

“Bucky,” Steve said, grinning.

“Yeah, maybe,” Alison said. “One arm, kinda chunky?”

Probably it was just the sudden cessation of exercise that had Steve's heart rate picking up at this description. “No – I mean, yeah, I know who you're talking about. It's my housemate. You can let him in.”

He toweled sweat off his face and waited for Bucky to come up, Alison's words ringing in his head. Kinda chunky? Really? Was it that obvious, Bucky's recently-added weight? Sure, he'd put on a few pounds, but chunky?

The man himself soon came into view, smiling as soon as he caught sight of Steve, looking... Wow, yeah, kinda chunky in a green t-shirt and old jeans. The t-shirt was snug across his broad chest and shoulders, and wrinkled a little beneath his pecs before pulling tight again across his rounding belly, which looked surprisingly substantial, the shadow of his belly button as obvious as a dimple in dough. His hips pushed out over his jeans, which were clearly a bit too tight, thighs beginning to press the limits, and he looked wide, solid. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, ever-so-slightly short of breath from the flight of stairs. “Got outta work early, thought maybe we could grab a late lunch? You're done with sessions for the day, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “that sounds great. Let me run and get changed and I'll meet you back downstairs?”

Steve emerged fifteen minutes later to find Bucky perched at the smoothie bar, sucking down what looked suspiciously like a Chocolate Coconut Bliss shake – the least smoothie-like item on the menu. Hunched over on the stool, he looked even wider than he had upstairs, and Steve could see a little strip of his lower back where his shirt didn't quite cover him. 

“This chocolate coconut joy thing is really fuckin' good,” Bucky said. “For health food.”

“Hardly health food,” Steve said. “It's got some protein, but it's mostly ice cream.”

“I got it to go,” Bucky said, waggling his extra-large cup, “so I'm ready when you are.”

“Chinese?” Steve suggested, as they walked out into the bright sun.

“Nah, I had leftover Chinese for lunch,” Bucky said. 

“I thought this was supposed to be lunch.”

“It's 3pm,” Bucky said defensively. “Lunch was noon. This is... late lunch.”

“What are you, a hobbit?”

“I wish, man. Oh, hey, what about burgers? I could go for some red meat, and I bet you could too, after all that lifting.”

They settled in at a hipster diner kind of place, all chrome and faux '50s décor and lipsticked waitresses with flower tattoos and Betty Page bangs, and Bucky swapped out his empty “smoothie” cup for a chocolate peanut butter milkshake, to start, followed by a bacon cheeseburger (“extra mayo, please,”) and a side of coleslaw and seasoned fries (“with Ranch, thanks”). 

Steve got a steak salad, and, contrary to his usual no-fried-food M.O., a basket of onion rings. He'd just have one or two, he reasoned, and then Bucky could have the rest, if he wanted them, if he wasn't too full. Steve refused to examine the strange little voice inside that insisted he was ordering the onions rings for precisely this reason; so Bucky could eat them on top of his already extravagant meal. 

“They make a mean burger,” Bucky mumbled, cheek stuffed with meat and bread like a chipmunk. “Sure you don't want a bite?”

“Nah,” Steve said. “But you should have some of these onion rings, if you want 'em.”

“Don't mind if I do,” Bucky said, and put down his burger so he could reach over and grab a handful, dunking them liberally in Ranch. He ate quickly and steadily, taking deep gulps of his milkshake in between bites of french fry and burger, and when he'd cleaned his plate he leaned back in the booth and let out a low belch that seemed to startle him, which was pretty fucking cute, if you asked Steve. 

“Anything else?” their waitress asked, poised to hand them the check.

“Yeah, actually, I'll take some of that strawberry shortcake,” Bucky said, his thumb tucked into the waistband of his jeans, like he was trying to get some more room. Steve could see the soft give of the flesh there.

“You sure you want dessert after two milkshakes?” Steve said as the waitress disappeared into the kitchen.

“Huh?” Bucky said, distracted. He was slouched over now, head propped in his hand like a tired kid, and Steve could hear that he was a little breathless, taking careful huffs of air. “Oh, yeah, the shortcake here's to die for. Plus, one was a smoothie.”

“You're gonna go into a sugar coma.”

“Thanks for your concern, but I'll be okay,” Bucky said, and when the dessert came he dug into it greedily, loading forkfuls with strawberries and cream and sighing happily as he chewed, mouth slightly open, breath coming even shorter now. Steve watched as if hypnotized as Bucky licked the fork clean over and over again with his pink tongue, his cheeks swelling with food, lips dusted in powdered sugar, and he stared when Bucky had to put his fork down so he could reach beneath the booth and adjust his pants, trying to tug them up, then down beneath the little curve of his stomach, then up again, before he shrugged and let them be and swiped his finger through the last streak of cream on the plate and sucked it off with a blissful expression. 

The waitress came to drop their check and take his plate away, and Bucky, eyes at half-mast, a little hazy with all that food, tried to dig his wallet out of his back pocket. 

“Stuck,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. Steve saw the problem immediately. Bucky's jeans were so tight his wallet was really wedged in there, and as Bucky twisted and cursed, a still-seated Steve was front-row to the show that was Bucky's bloated belly, rounded and thick, an unmistakable little roll starting at his hip when he twisted. His efforts made his t-shirt ride up a bit, and Steve caught a tiny glimpse of the belly itself, looking pale and firm and stretched. Finally Bucky got his wallet and tugged at his shirt, thumping back down into the booth with a hiccup. 

“Oof,” Bucky commented, and passed gentle fingers over his round midsection, like petting a cat.

“Overdid it?” Steve said.

“Maybe,” Bucky conceded. 

Steve didn't know why he wanted to keep talking about it, but he did, wanted to keep the conversation centered on Bucky's overindulgence for some reaso. 

So, “You're getting kinda chunky, there, Buck,” Steve said, in a mild, teasing manner. 

Bucky looked surprised, and then flushed. “I've gained twenty pounds,” he admitted. 

Steve's own face felt hot, his blood right at the surface, his body tingling. “It shows.”

“I can't work out like I used to,” Bucky said defensively. “With the arm, you know?”

Oh. Was that it? Steve was suffused with guilt. “Sure you can, Bucky,” he said. “There's plenty of ways around it, and you know I'd always be glad to give you a couple private sessions.”

“All right, you got me,” Bucky said, holding up his hand. “I don't wanna work out. I like being a civilian, eating what I want, walking when I went...”

“Getting soft like a civilian...”

Bucky laughed, though it was interrupted by a hiccup. “Ow. Yeah,” he said, and patted his tummy again. “If that's the price to pay for comfort? Fine. I can afford it.”

“Not for long,” Steve said, and Bucky bit his lip.

“We'll see,” he said, and Steve, god help him, Steve was hard. 

That's what this was. Seeing Bucky chunk out like this, seeing his belly begin to pooch, his mouth always full, his chest getting wider, softer, his jawline not so sharp, his chin getting soft... 

It turned Steve on. Blazingly, insistently on. 

What the fuck?


	2. Tight Fit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to read the warnings at the start of the first chapter -- though as I continue writing I think maybe it could be qualified more as "very heavy teasing" rather than fat-shaming? But I don't really know the differentiation. Either way, it could be triggering or sad-making or just generally not-fun for some, so please read with caution.

Bucky knew he was putting on weight. He didn't need Steve “Buns of Steel” Rogers to tell him that. 

He could feel it in all his clothes, for starters: his t-shirts were beginning to cling to his belly and inch upwards as he moved, and their hems kept working their way over the pudge on his softening lower back, shirts riding up as his too-tight waistband was crushed down, like a missed communication. His jeans all pinched unforgivingly and left deep red divots in his skin, and the denim bunched around his crotch and thighs, straining against the increasing heft of his ass. Worst, though, was how tough the zippers were to get up with just one arm – each morning he needed to throw a little more “oomph” behind his tugging, holding his breath while he fumbled the button closed, then pulling the waistband down and trying to get it comfortably situated beneath his burgeoning belly, to no avail. 

Plus, he wasn't blind: he could see himself in the mirror. He saw that his waist was getting a little thicker, tummy getting a little rounder, face softer, and he could feel his ass jiggle as he hiked up his difficult jeans each morning. It wasn't a lot of weight – just twenty pounds, give or take (or, let's be honest, give), but it was enough that he had to accept it as fact, had to take it in stride and move on. So he was getting comfortable, so what? No big deal. 

Except he wasn't. Comfortable. Less and less so, in fact. 

“Quit squirming,” Nat said, poking him. 

It was 3am and they were on the couch watching an all-night Friends marathon, neither of them feeling like sleep for some reason. There was a near-finished bowl of buttery popcorn between them and the melty dregs of a pint of ice cream tucked between Bucky's thighs, plus an empty can of whipped cream on the table that Bucky hadn't meant to finish. He was chewing the last bite of a King Size Butterfinger. Earlier, he'd eaten half a cold sausage pizza and six pieces of buttered toast. 

Nat had, in comparison, eaten about six handfuls of popcorn. 

His belly felt tight and achy, overstuffed in the small confines of his jeans. He could feel the button digging into him, and they were so tight around his ass and legs that he could feel the seams marking up his thighs. He kept trying to shift around and find a position that didn't hurt, but every time he moved his tummy gave a little gurgle and seemed to swell even further outwards. His t-shirt even felt tight under his armpits. 

He swallowed the last bite of Butterfinger and twisted away from Nat's poking finger. 

“I gotta go put on some P.J.s,” he said, leaning forward to drop the empty ice cream container on the coffee table. It hurt to lean like that, made his jeans cut into his waist even worse, and the position pressed out a small, unsatisfying burp. 

“You're going to sleep?” Nat said, eyes luminous in the light from the television.

“No,” he assured her, “just changing into something a little more comfortable.”

He padded upstairs, working out bits of toffeelike butterfinger from his back teeth, and nearly committed unintentional bestie-cide when he ran into Steve in the dark hall outside the bathroom. 

“Christ, Rogers,” he said, putting his hand over his pounding heart, fighting to quiet the kill instinct he'd spent years honing. “Warn a guy, would you?”

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “What're you doing up?”

“Couldn't sleep,” he said. “Me 'n Nat are just hanging out downstairs, watching TV.”

Steve nodded. He was in boxers and a white t-shirt, and when he raised a hand to his mouth to muffle a yawn, his bicep flexed hugely. God, Bucky still wasn't used to this new body of his, this work of freaking art. He'd loved Steve's old pre-medical trial body, too, had always thought his best friend was one of the handsomest guys in the world even if he barely outweighed a dachsund, but this... this was just unfair. 

“What're you watching?” Steve said, and Bucky shrugged.

“Friends. Light shit, you know?” And something possessed him to add, “And we're having a little midnight snack.”

“Little?” Steve said, one brow arched at Bucky's midsection, where his t-shirt had ridden up again and his bloated tummy was pressing insistently against his waistband. 

Bucky patted his belly sheepishly, feeling his cheeks flush. “Mighta gone overboard.”

“You know what they say about eating late at night,” Steve admonished. “It'll make you put on weight even faster.”

Bucky's cheeks grew hotter at that word: even. Even faster. Implying that he was putting on weight fast, already – which, yeah, he knew that, but for Steve to know it too was just... 

Well, it was embarrassing! It should be embarrassing. Bucky was embarrassed, and that's why his face was red, that's why his fingers were tingling, that's why his dick was twitching. Shame-boners. Those were totally a thing. 

“Anyway,” Bucky said, an awkward moment later. “I'm gonna go put on something looser. My pants are all --” and why the fuck was he admitting this? “-- a little tight, at the moment.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, eyes raking up and down his body in what seemed an involuntary movement. “I can see that. Well. Enjoy the saga of Ross and Rachel. Hope you get a little sleep tonight.”

“Me too,” Bucky said.

But he didn't. He and Nat stayed on the couch all night, though Nat fell asleep around 4am, and Bucky heralded in the dawn while crunching through a mixing bowl full of frosted flakes. After he'd put on his pajama pants, which were loose but not nearly as loose as he remembered, something had driven him to keep eating, and the evidence of his strange, singleminded all-night binge was scattered around him: the leftover pizza box from earlier, the empty carton of ice cream, the empty bowl of popcorn, the empty can of whipped cream, numerous candy wrappers, a crumpled potato chip bag, a plate of crumbs from a grilled cheese sandwich, an empty tub of butterscotch pudding, an empty box of saltines, the rind from a wedge of brie, the empty cereal box, a mostly-empty gallon of milk... 

He'd been eating steadily since about 11pm. Eight hours. The equivalent of a full day of work, and he'd spent it on his ass in front of the TV, shoveling food into his throbbing, overstretched gullet, which was more bloated than he could ever remember feeling it. Or seeing it. Looking down, his tummy looked incredibly round, pressed tight against his t-shirt, an inch or so of bare skin exposed at the bottom, and when he touched it gingerly with careful fingers, it had almost no give to it. It was swollen like a tick, completely full, and it ached badly, a gurgling, tight hurt that felt good, somehow, felt almost pleasurable in the gluttonous pain of it. 

He finished his bowl of cereal with a pained huff of breath, his lungs feeling strapped and squished; it hurt too much to breathe deeply, so he was panting a little, wheezing as he slid his hand up beneath his t-shirt and laid his palm on the hot, taut surface of his poor belly, trying to find some measure of relief. There was very little to be had. 

And that's how Steve found him when he came trotting down the stairs at 7am, dressed for the gym, all bright blue eyes and enormous muscles and perky full-night-of-sleep smile. 

He practically skidded to a halt when he saw Bucky and Nat still on the couch, the TV on low and Bucky with a hand still cresting the curve of his throbbing belly, food detritus everywhere, like a hurricane had struck a convenience store. 

“You didn't sleep at all?” Steve said, brow creasing in concern.

“Nope.”

“You just stayed up all night? Eating?”

“Yup.”

Steve was staring at him, staring at his rounded belly, and Bucky knew he should pull his t-shirt down, at least, or try and suck in, but he was too lazy and in too much glorious pain to do anything more than pat his tummy carefully, once, twice, three times. 

“You really are gettin' pretty tubby, bud,” Steve said, his voice a little strained. 

“I know,” Bucky said. “I need to cut back.”

“I'd be glad to go over a meal plan with you.”

Bucky swallowed. “Maybe I'll take you up on that.”

Why did it feel like there was a completely different conversation happening below the surface? Why was Bucky's cock giving such clear signs of interest? Why was Steve still staring at his gut?

“Well,” Steve said. “Get some rest. Take a nap, or something. Digest, for god's sake.”

Bucky laughed, then winced as the motion jostled his poor, stretched stomach. “Yeah,” he said. “I will. Have a good day, Stevie. Train 'em good.”

“See you at dinner,” Steve said, and disappeared out the door. 

Bucky let out the huge, rumbling belch he'd been holding in, and Nat startled awake. 

“Wha...?” she said, blinking. “What'd I miss?” Then she took in the snackpocalypse that surrounded the couch. “Oh,” she said. “You ate the fridge.”

“I left you the ice maker,” Bucky said. 

“You're such a gentleman,” she said, snuggling back down into the cushions, her eyes already closing.

Bucky burped softly. 

:::

The next Monday, Steve made a batch of Chocolate Cashew Butter Bombs for The Team – and, true to his word, a second batch for Bucky. 

“Here,” he said, dropping a tupperware container on the coffee table where Bucky had his booted feet up. 

“Oooh,” Bucky said. He was eating a stack of buttered toast and watching the morning news before work. “I'm starting to love Mondays.” He wiped buttery fingers on the softening pooch of his tummy, made a little grabbing motion. Steve laughed and pried open the container, handed Bucky a little chocolate ball that Bucky popped in his mouth, chewing experimentally. “Yum,” he pronounced. “Another.”

“Watch out,” Steve said, handing one over. “They're small, but they're full of calories, and they add up fast.”

“Noted,” Bucky said, mouth full.

He finished the entire container before the end of the day. He kept it open by his computer at his desk, absentmindedly eating the gooey little balls whenever he felt peckish, which was often, because his job was boring as hell and it was nice to have a sweet little reward whenever he finished a line of code or talked a client through a systems breakdown. He remembered Steve's warning about the calories, sure, but though Steve's deep, cautionary voice kept running through his head on a loop, strangely it only made him hungrier. 

At 11:30 he ate an early lunch at his desk: a couple salami sandwiches, three sticks of string cheese and a sleeve of Ritz crackers, then a big stack of Oreos and a liter of Coke to wash it down. 

At 1pm a few of his co-workers invited him to come get tacos at the taco truck outside, so in the spirit of camaraderie he got a few beef tacos and a simple cheese quesadilla with sour cream. Then, because it was on special and because he'd finished his meal first, he treated himself to a large rice pudding with whipped cream and cinnamon. 

In truth, he hadn't been hungry to begin with, and by the end of his second lunch (“What are you, a hobbit?” Steve asked in his head) he was uncomfortable and bloated, his belly rounding out over the increasingly painful press of his waistband. He'd been wearing a flannel shirt in deference to the A/C, and he shucked it to get some air, though the t-shirt beneath it was a little bit tighter than he would've preferred for a work environment. He could feel the cool breeze caressing the exposed skin of his bare lower back, and he tried to hike up his pants but it was hard to get a grip one-handed, and his gurgling tummy protested the movement. So he simply sat back at the picnic bench and indulged in a few low, discreet burps as his co-workers chatted and laughed. 

Then he went back inside and finished off Steve's treats. 

“Barnes, did you just get a girlfriend or something?” his favorite co-worker Darcy asked, as he was gathering his things at the end of the day and shrugging back into his flannel, t-shirt tugged up a few inches above his painfully tight waistband. 

“No?” Bucky said. “Why?”

“No reason,” Darcy said, and giggled. 

“Anyway, I'm gay,” he said, because this was Seattle, and if he couldn't be out and proud here, what was the point of the West Coast?

“Oh,” said Darcy, and cocked her head. “Cub?”

“Excuse me?” Bucky said, totally confused. 

“Never mind,” she said, and tossed him a pack of Twizzlers. 

:::

It's not like he didn't know this day was coming. 

Bucky lay flat on his bed, stomach sucked in as much as possible, fingers scrabbling in vain on the skinny metal zipper of his jeans. It wouldn't go more than halfway up, and even that felt like a stretch. With a groan he let out the breath he'd been holding and watched his belly blossom back upwards, sticking out round and firm even in his laid-flat position. When he pushed himself into a sit, it mounded out between the impossible flaps of his jeans, and he gave it an experimental pat, then a jiggle. It was pretty solid, but just soft enough to have a little give, and he kept prodding at it as he stood up and went to stand in front of his closet. 

None of his pants fit. Some, he could zip, but they were so uncomfortable it wasn't worth it, and eventually he resigned himself to wearing sweatpants for the next few days, until he could get to a store.

Luckily, he had a few elastic-waisted black joggers that weren't entirely inappropriate, though they looked a little silly with his combat boots and customary tee and flannel. He put his hair up – he was getting better and better at doing that one-handed – then eyed his face critically in the mirror, saw how his jaw blurred ever so slightly into his neck, how his chin was hinting at the arrival of a friend, and was it just him or were his cheeks a little puffy? He put his hair back down. 

He tried to button his flannel, thinking he'd hide the new belly a little, but though he got the buttons done up with just a little effort and sucking-in, they stretched tight and gaped when he moved, and it looked even more ridiculous than it did unbuttoned. Unbuttoned, he couldn't do anything about the way his belly swelled outwards between the two sides of his flannel like a sail, but at least it hid the fleshy little handfuls he was collecting on his hips and lower back.

Jesus, even his pinned-up empty left sleeve felt tight, like his phantom arm was getting chubby, too. 

He thumped downstairs for breakfast, feeling hungry as a horse even though he'd had a pint of ice cream and a piece of chocolate cake for a midnight snack, and his belly and ass quivered as he took the stairs. Without the tight confines of his jeans, his butt felt even bigger, somehow, jiggling beneath the material of his sweatpants. 

Steve was at the counter, blending some green juice thing, all golden tan and golden hair and perfectly firm body. He glanced at Bucky as Bucky started to rummage through the fridge, then did a double-take.

“Sweats?” he said. 

“You're wearing sweats, too,” Bucky said, pulling out a carton of eggs and a bag of shredded cheddar. 

“Yeah, 'cause I'm headed to the gym,” Steve said. 

Bucky got out the butter and bacon. 

“Let me guess,” Steve said. “Pants are a little tight?”

“A little,” Bucky snorted, and put four pieces of bread in the toaster, cut a couple hunks of butter into a cast-iron. 

“Turn around,” Steve commanded.

Bucky didn't have to take this. But even though – or because? – he knew what was coming, he turned around slowly to face Steve, fighting the urge to suck in his belly; instead, he let it stay the way it was: obvious and round and poking out from his flannel like a dolphin's back cresting a wave. 

“Buck,” Steve said, stern but scratchy-voiced. “You're seriously packing it on.”

“A little, yeah,” Bucky said, and couldn't help touching his tummy with careful fingers. 

When he spoke again, Steve's voice was almost monotone, controlled. “Have you weighed yourself lately?”

“No,” Bucky mumbled, feeling that strange, inexplicable thrum of pure excitement building in his chest and groin. He knew his face was getting red, but not from shame. 

“Weigh yourself today,” Steve said. “Then tell me how much you've gained. We need to --” he swallowed, licked his lips. “We need to get this under control.”

“I know,” Bucky said, stroking his stomach in earnest now, just light, feathery touches across the taut dome of it with the tips of his fingers, the way he sometimes did when he was alone. “I just... I've tried cutting back, but it's tough. I can't stop eating.”

“That's obvious,” Steve said. “What're you going to eat right now?”

“Four pieces of toast and butter,” Bucky said. “Three eggs with cheese. Probably about half that package of bacon. A glass of milk.”

“I hope you're not going to eat any of that leftover chocolate cake,” Steve said. 

“I might,” Bucky said. “Was thinking about it.”

Steve shook his head slowly, his eyes wide. “You keep going at this rate,” he said, “and you're gonna get fat, Bucky.”

Bucky lowered his head, feeling the pudge at his chin gather. “You're right,” he said, and the toaster dinged.

As if shaken from a trance, Steve started, then looked at his watch. “Shit, I'm late,” he said, grabbing his smoothie from the blender's base and fastening a lid on it. On his way out the door, he paused, and said, “Don't forget to weigh yourself.” 

Then he was gone.

Bucky ate his hearty breakfast in a daze, feeling ashamed and turned-on in nearly equal measures. He was, if he was honest, more on the turned-on side of the spectrum, and in a weird way his shame fed into it, made his arousal burn hotter, brighter. He couldn't explain it. He knew Steve was probably disgusted with him, probably didn't understand how he could let himself go like this, but as he stuffed his mouth with the aforementioned chocolate cake, he couldn't bring himself to feel bad about it. 

After breakfast, he went upstairs and, filled with hot, hot shame, he got himself off to the memory of Steve's low, hoarse voice saying, “You're gonna get fat, Bucky. You're gonna get fat.”

He came so hard he nearly cried.


	3. Rounding Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings still apply.
> 
> In case you haven't noticed, this is a slow, slow burn y'all. No plot. Just pudge.

Steve came home that evening to find Bucky perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, his posture strangely rigid and poised, his eyes a little anxious, like he'd been waiting. 

“I just got home, too,” Bucky said rapidly, as soon as Steve came in the door. “So I haven't had time to do what you said, yet. To weigh myself,” he added, at Steve's silence. 

As if Steve didn't know what he was talking about. As if Steve could forget their conversation from that morning, how Bucky had just stood there in his sweatpants with his thick thighs and his round tummy and his softening chest and his pudgy chin, just stood there and let Steve stare. 

“Do you have time now?” Steve said, finally, when he found his voice. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “I was just about to go upstairs. Do you... maybe you should come?”

“Maybe I should,” Steve croaked, and followed Bucky towards the bathroom on the second floor. He couldn't help but notice how tight even Bucky's sweatpants were across his ass, how his cheeks were plump and round and wobbled as he climbed the stairs. How his thighs were getting thick, juicy. 

In the bathroom, Steve had another difficult moment when Bucky stepped on the scale and had to suck in his breath and peer over his belly in order to see the red numbers past the slope of it. Steve himself could barely look, just stared at the pudge that gathered under Bucky's chin as he looked down, and waited with the kind of breathless anticipation he remembered from Christmas as a kid. 

“Wow,” Bucky commented. 

“What?” Steve said, then, trying not to sound over-eager, “What's the damage?”

“Well, I was about one ninety when I got here,” Bucky said. “And this scale says I'm 228... so...”

“Forty pounds,” Steve breathed. 

“Thirty-eight!” Bucky corrected. “You're rounding up.”

“No, Buck,” Steve said. “You are.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, staring down at the bulge of his belly, patting it with something akin to bewilderment, though Steve could swear he detected a tiny hint of pride, too. “I guess I am.”

“I'm surprised you didn't grow out of your pants ten pounds ago.”

“They've been way too tight for a while,” Bucky said, his fingers absentmindedly circling the place where his t-shirt was pulled tight across his navel. “I used to be able to get 'em buttoned under my, uh, under my belly, but my hips got too big for that.”

“You should probably...” Steve swallowed. “You should probably go on a diet.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “I really should. But honestly, Stevie? Right now? Right now I'm kinda hungry. Wanna come sit with me while I have a snack?”

There was literally nothing Steve wanted more. Back in the kitchen, they stood in silence while Bucky arranged a thick roast beef sandwich with a pile of cheese and mayo, then as if by some unspoken agreement they both sat down at the kitchen table across from one another.

“Forty pounds,” Steve repeated. “Jesus, that's a lot of weight to put on in, what, five months?” 

“I mean, not surprising, I guess,” said Bucky, licking mayo off his thumb. “My appetite's been pretty out of control.”

“Is that how you feel?” Steve said eagerly. “Out of control?”

Bucky spoke through a big bite. “A little? I mean, I love eating, you know? I love everything about it. But then there's this.” He pushed his chair away from the table and palmed the swell of his stomach, looking up as if making sure Steve could see. Steve could see, all right. Could see how that belly looked even bigger when Bucky was seated; could see how it was lapping over the elastic waistband of his sweats; could see how even his flannel shirt was getting tight around his shoulders. 

Steve cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. 

“But, I guess I don't care,” Bucky continued. “I mean, I'll probably even out at some point, and I don't really want to go to the gym or whatever, so... I'll probably just... keep... eating the way I have been?” He spoke slowly, almost hopefully. 

“As a trainer,” Steve said, “it's hard” – no pun intended – “for me to watch my best friend let himself get so out of shape.”

“If you feel you have to nag, go ahead and nag,” Bucky said. “I get it.”

“It's just, it could be unhealthy.”

Bucky went back to his sandwich. “I'm lazy enough to take that risk,” he said. 

“Well,” Steve said. “I'm gonna go get changed. And. Uh. Clint texted about bringing home Indian for dinner.”

“Yeah, I got the same text,” Bucky said. “I put in my order.”

“I bet you did,” Steve said. 

Then he went upstairs. Then he took off his pants. Then he jerked off to that image of Bucky with one hand on his thick, round stomach, his fingers squishing into the soft flesh, his thighs spread, noticeably chunkier even in sweatpants. The way he'd gone right back to eating, apparently unfazed, though his cheeks had been pink, pink like a ripe apple, and Steve, god help him, Steve wanted to bite. 

:::

Steve had never felt attraction like this before. 

He'd known for a while that he was bisexual, had come out around the same time Bucky had, when they were eighteen, but he'd never looked at bigger guys with any special attention; nor at bigger girls. If asked, he'd have denied having a type at all: curves were great, but so were muscles. He liked it all. The closest he'd come to a dating pattern was that he always went for brunettes with sparkly eyes.

He was a trainer, yeah, but that didn't mean he was obsessed with fitness. No, what he loved most about his job was that he was there to help usher people through their physical transformations, like the one he himself had gone through as a scrawny, sick 16-year old who'd been given a second chance thanks to the Erskine Project. That's what had gotten him into training in the first place: the idea that he could be present for other peoples' exciting changes. 

And Bucky's change was... exciting. God, was it. 

Steve knew he and Bucky were close in a way few people were to their best friends, and he knew, too, that his sexuality had probably developed in direct relation to Bucky's. After all, everything he was – every part of his personality – had been influenced by Bucky in some way. Bucky had known him when he was just a tiny kid who couldn't even go up a flight of stairs without gasping for breath, and he knew him now, strong and healthy; he'd been there on both sides of Steve's life. 

Maybe that was part of the excitement, Steve thought, as he taught his 4:30 Ripped! class. Maybe it was the novelty of watching Bucky change, the way Bucky had watched him change. Or maybe it was how shy and pleased Bucky seemed about it, how he blushed when Steve mentioned his weight but was obviously not unhappy to discuss it. Maybe it was the obvious joy Bucky took in eating. 

Whatever the reason... Steve had never been more turned on in his life. Something about watching Bucky getting chubbier and chubbier, rounder and rounder, had exploded all of his self-imposed barriers and self-control, and try as he might he couldn't put those walls back up. All his life, he'd kept Bucky in a compartment labeled DON'T TOUCH, too scared to think what it might mean for their friendship, too terrified of losing the person he loved most in the world – but now? Bucky had literally outgrown that compartment along with his pants. 

And god, there was something so sweet about this new Bucky, too, something so soft and pliable. The hard edges were smoothing. All that was left of the soldier was Bucky's willingness to please, his seeming eagerness to take orders, to follow directions.

“And up! And press! And down! And press!” Steve was shouting at his sweating class. 

Steve always had been bossy. 

:::

He wasn't the only one who'd noticed Bucky's increased girth, of course – but no one else seemed affected. 

“Lots of guys get a little belly when they're discharged,” Natasha said. “I probably would, too, if it weren't for the patriarchal double-standard that won't let girls get fat without giving them shit. Though I guess you've appointed yourself Bucky's shit-giving angel.”

“It's not just a little belly, anymore, though,” Steve said. Even talking about it made him dizzy with lust. “It's getting to be a real gut.”

“Oh, loosen up,” she said, chucking him under the chin. “Save your mother-hen act for something that matters.”

Clint just shrugged and gave the sneezy-looking sign for “Don't care.”

At the gym, when Steve broached the subject with Sam, Sam said, “Yeah, 'course I've noticed. Hard to miss, but I say live and let live, man. We're here if he wants to drop some pounds, he knows that, but for now he seems happy. I wouldn't worry.”

Steve wasn't worrying. It wasn't worry that kept him up at night. It was... god, worry would be easy, compared to this! 

And Bucky, fucking Bucky, was still eating like there was no tomorrow, like that belly wasn't getting bigger and rounder with every passing week, like his sweatpants weren't tight around his growing thighs, like his t-shirts weren't two inches too short and a size too snug, like his face wasn't getting all pudgy and soft like it'd been when he was a kid. Like his ass wasn't bubbling out and straining the seats of his pants. He just kept chowing down. 

“Pass the pasta,” Bucky said at one of their 'family dinners,' all of them crowded round the kitchen table, empty beer bottles lining the countertops. Everyone else had stopped eating a while ago and were sitting back, their plates empty in front of them, but Bucky had barely slowed. He tugged at the waistband of his tight sweats and heaped another huge serving of alfredo onto his plate, even though he was – to Steve's eye – clearly full, hiding little belches behind his hand, wincing as he hiccuped. 

A few minutes later, “Pass the bread.”

“You sure you want more rolls?” Steve asked, passing him the basket.

Bucky buttered a roll, nodding, looking right into Steve's eyes. “Actually,” he said, and reached for another. “I think I want two.”

A few days later he found Bucky on the back porch, drinking a beer and methodically demolishing a box of ice cream sandwiches. 

“I just bought those yesterday,” Steve said, peering into the box and finding just one left. 

“Thanks, I love them,” Bucky said, struggling to pick off a wrapper. Steve took it from him, easily shucked the wax paper, and handed it back. 

Steve settled into the wooden deck chair beside him, and for a while they watched the sun set between the roofs of neighboring houses. Well, Bucky was watching the sun. Steve was watching Bucky. It'd been nearly three weeks but he still hadn't gotten proper pants, seemed content to grow out of his sweatpants, too, which had smears of ice cream across the thighs and were cutting into Bucky's soft sides – a problem that was very much in evidence because of the smallness of Bucky's shirt. His old red henley was stretched so tight it was nearly see-through. It wrinkled in the crease where his belly jutted out from his torso, and it strained around his pecs, which were still clinging to firmness but were definitely softer, pudgier, rounder like the rest of Bucky. The unbuttoned neck showed off the softening of his previously-sharp collarbones. The hem didn't quite meet the waist of his sweats, and Steve could see a few little pink striations gracing Bucky's swollen hips and marking the inch or so of underbelly that was poking out. Stretch marks. Jesus fucking christ. 

Bucky reached for the box of ice cream sandwiches again, but Steve was faster. He snatched it, and held it just out of Bucky's reach. 

“You really think you need more?” he said. 

Bucky's face was instantly red. “Um,” he said, and burped. 

“I think you've put on at least another ten pounds since we weighed you,” Steve said. 

“No way,” Bucky said. “Maybe eight, tops.”

“I don't know,” Steve said. “You definitely look chubbier, especially around the face. Getting a little double chin, there.” He patted his own chin for emphasis. 

“Sweats feel a little tighter,” Bucky admitted, and lowered his hand to tug at the waistband, pausing to prod at the swell of belly that jutted out below his naval. It looked soft and squishable and Steve's mouth was watering. 

“You need to get some real pants,” Steve said. “If you're not gonna lose the weight, at least stop dressing like a fat schlub.”

“I'm not fat,” Bucky said. “I'm husky.”

Steve laughed, a little breathlessly. “Sure,” he said. “For now.”

“C'mon, Stevie,” Bucky said, reaching again for the ice cream sandwiches, his tight shirt riding up even more, that fat curve of lower belly pushing out. “I'm hungry.”

“You can't wait for dinner?”

“No!”

“I'll make a deal with you,” Steve said. “Get yourself some new jeans, and I'll let you have this ice cream.”

“Deal,” Bucky said instantly, and Steve unwrapped the last sandwich for him, fingers brushing Bucky's as he passed it over. Bucky stuffed a bite into in his mouth, staring at Steve with those big, unreadable blue eyes.

The sight of Bucky's pink lips wrapped around the ice cream treat was almost too much for Steve to take, and he excused himself calmly, then practically ran to the safety of his room and the bottle of lotion and box of kleenex that were waiting for him there. 

:::

The next evening, Bucky showed up to dinner in brand-new dark-washed denim, as promised, and Steve nodded approvingly, though a part of him was sad to see the sweatpants go. The shy grin Bucky gave him in return was more than worth it, though, and even almost made up for the absolutely crippling guilt Steve felt at getting off on his best, oldest friend's fattening ass. 

“You need some new shirts, too,” Steve said, as Bucky tucked into a container of General Tso's. 

“Steve,” Natasha said, quietly. 

“He's right,” Bucky shrugged. “Mine are all getting a little snug.”

“Understatement,” Steve said, and Sam shot him a warning glance, but he only had eyes for Bucky, who was grinning a little, that same delicious pink back in his cheeks. 

“Fine,” Bucky said, and he dropped his chopsticks so he could shove his chair back from the table (again!), and – with everybody watching – try and tug his shirt down over the inch or so of belly it no longer covered; a feat that was clearly impossible, anymore. “They're way too fucking small,” Bucky said. “You happy?”

Clint let out a low, impressed whistle, and brought up both hands, one doing a funny little walk across his other open palm. Natasha giggled. 

“Share with the class?” Sam said. 

“You got chubby,” Clint said to Bucky, and did the sign again. “See? Like a fat little dude waddling.”

“I'm not fat!” Bucky said, huffing as he pulled himself back towards the table. “And I don't waddle.”

“You will if you finish that entire container of chicken by yourself,” Steve said. 

“I'll finish this one, and yours too, Rogers,” Bucky shot back, and reached out to snatch the last untouched eggroll on Steve's plate. Before Steve could say anything, Bucky had stuffed the entire thing into his mouth and was chewing furiously. Nat clapped, and Sam laughed so hard his forehead nearly knocked into the tabletop. Clint just did the “chubby” sign again, grinning. 

Bucky did eat the entire container of chicken alone – and the rest of Steve's beef and broccoli. And a big serving of Nat's fried tofu. And most of the crab rangoons. And a carton and a half of rice. And all five of the fortune cookies, and later, when they wandered down to the ice cream shop, he ate a five-scoop banana split with peanut butter, butterscotch, hot fudge, whipped cream, and two peanut butter cookies. 

They sat outside the shop to people-watch and enjoy their ice cream, and Bucky was the last to finish, going kind of slow at the end, breath coming quickly, his lips parted and painted sticky with cream. 

“Don't tell me,” Steve said as Bucky's spoon finally scraped the bottom of the bowl. “Next you're gonna get a small chocolate cone to go.”

“No,” Bucky said. “But now that you mention it...”

“I think I'd be sick just watching you,” Steve said.

“For once, I'm with Rogers,” Sam agreed. “Even if he is being a dick.”

“Hey,” Steve objected, very mildly, because of course Sam was right. Usually he would never say these things. But something about teasing Bucky just... did it for him, even if it was against his nature. He'd been bullied all his life – he hated bullies! Yet here he was, taunting his best friend for being pudgy. A dick move, indeed. 

Yet somehow, he didn't think Bucky minded.

Bucky was fiddling with the hem of his shirt, even more ill-fitting than it had been before dinner. A chunky swell of underbelly was poking out, and Steve realized, with a little thrill, that he couldn't see Bucky's waistband anymore – his belly had lapped it completely. Someday – maybe someday soon – it would begin to rest on the tops of his thighs. 

“Fuck it,” Bucky said, and pushed himself up from the picnic table with an unfeigned groan, his hand going to the side of his belly for a second as if to steady it, then he headed back for the ice cream line.

“Look what you did,” Nat scolded Steve.

“Me?”

“You egged him on!” 

“I did the opposite,” Steve lied. He was finding it tough to pay attention to anything but Bucky in the ice cream line, new jeans belted tightly as if he'd gotten them too-big on purpose, as if he was planning to grow into them. Even in the new pants, his ass was clearly getting wide, and round, and his chunky sides rolled out like waves, his back broad and soft, and beneath the tight shirt Steve could see two little creases forming at Bucky's hips, the beginning of rolls. As he stood in line, he palmed his belly absentmindedly. 

“He really has packed it on,” Clint said, in almost admiring tones. “Can't deny that.”

“Jesus, he got a double!” Sam groaned, as Bucky turned back towards them with a heaping tower of chocolate ice cream on a chocolate-dipped cone. 

He was grinning as he came to stand by Steve, his belly swelling roundly just inches from Steve's eyes, and this close Steve could see how full he really was, could see just how tautly that tummy was packed, could see how shallow his breaths were and hear the wheeze in his lungs. 

“Even better the second time around,” Bucky said, giving it a long lick, and Steve couldn't help himself. He poked Bucky right at the widest part of his stomach, just above his belly button, felt the tight roundness of him, the softness that lay over the bloat, the fullness. Bucky jolted in surprise and let out a long, wet belch, then a smaller burp, then another rippling one. 

“Excuse you,” Nat said, as Bucky moved his hand down to nudge uncomfortably at the side of his belly, ice cream dripping from the cone onto his shirt. Steve had the sudden, stupid, fire-of-the-sun-hot thought that it would be nicer, probably, if Bucky had two hands, so he could eat with one and rub his belly with the other, and probably he'd really appreciate Steve's own hands in that respect, how nice and slow and smooth Steve could rub that firm gut. 

“Let's go,” he said, standing very quickly. The sooner he could get home and let off some steam, the better. 

Though the sight of Bucky walking slowly, working his way through his ice cream, short of breath, stopping every so often to hiccup or try and rustle up a deep “Hurrrp,” was a torture all of its own. Steve walked behind him for a while, but the sight of that chubby ass bobbing up and down in the new jeans had him hurrying in front, where he engaged Sam in a cold-water conversation about the new guest sign-in program at The Team. 

But oh, the feeling of Bucky's firm, fat belly around his finger. That memory wasn't going to go away anytime soon. If ever.


	4. Cheesy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow my writing seems even more gratuitous when chaptered-out instead of one-shotted? Like, remember last chapter? That again, but fatter!

Bucky knew he should cut down. He knew he didn't need that last-minute midnight burrito, or those three pieces of cake from Darcy's office birthday party, or the bucket of fried chicken on his way home from work. He didn't need the dozen donuts he put away without even noticing. He didn't need a milkshake instead of a glass of water. 

He didn't need any of that stuff. 

But god, he wanted it. He wanted it all. His appetite, always impressive, had increased so that it took a lot now to make him feel full, and he kept eating himself to that point and beyond, chasing the heady sensation of being completely overstuffed, totally stretched-out and totally satisfied, the painful pressure of his stomach sending shocks straight to his dick. 

And everything tasted so good. 

Bucky was at his desk in his ergonomic rolly chair, reading a company email as he made his way through a tupperware full of Steve's Blueberry Power Pie and moving his head around absently, fighting a vague sensation of discomfort around his throat, when he realized what it was: the neck of his t-shirt was too tight. 

Even his fucking neck was getting fat. 

He looked at the pie, then looked at his belly, swelling out round and full from beneath his sensitive pecs, which were getting puffier by the day. He'd gotten some new t-shirts along with his new pants and was wearing one now, but even this new shirt had bunched-up around the curve of his tummy, and he put down his fork and smoothed a hand down the dome of it, leaned back and found the place his underbelly was hiding his waistband, felt the painful red mark where his belt was biting into his skin, felt how his stomach was just touching the tops of his thighs. His hips were beginning to dig into the arms of his chair, no less. He glanced around, saw that none of his co-workers were looking, and snaked a hand up his t-shirt to run his fingers across the soft little stretchmarks that had begun to spider out from his belly button and down his hips. He put a finger into the little crease of his side, followed it around to his back. Patted the wobble under his chin. 

Looked at the pie again. Looked at his tummy. Loaded another forkful, inexorably, like he had no choice. Steve made this pie, he thought, stupidly – and it was Steve's face he saw as he kept forking it down. 

“Hey Bucky,” Darcy said, poking her head over the side of his cubicle as he took the last sugary bite. “We're gonna check out that new Southern chicken truck by the fountain. Wanna come?”

“You know I do,” Bucky said, feeling the weight of the pie in his belly, on top of his big breakfast and early lunch. He saw Steve's face, heard his teasing, disapproving words. He heaved himself to his feet, hand on the desk for balance, because he was really starting to be able to feel all these added pounds, his belly pulling him forward and messing with his balance, his whole body heavier and just that little bit harder to move around.

He knew his co-workers had noticed his growing problem. He'd seen their side-eyes, the way their gazes always started at his gut before flicking up to his face, and he knew they probably gossiped about it, and – because he was a perverted motherfucker – it was exciting. And embarrassing. Not quite as GOOD-PLEASE-MORE embarrassing as it was when Steve noticed, or commented, but yeah. He couldn't help the little hot shiver of excitement that ran through him when he caught someone's eyes snagging on his ever-expanding stomach, couldn't stop the pleasure he felt when he got caught finishing off the box of donuts in the break room. 

He settled down on the picnic bench next to Darcy with a tray full of fried chicken and biscuits and sweet tea, his tummy just skimming up against the edge of the table top, and his cubicle neighbor, a sweet single dad named Phil, said, “Do you cook, James?”

“Not really,” Bucky said, ripping into a crispy chicken leg. “Simple stuff, eggs, spaghetti, you know. Why?”

“Oh, just wondering. You seem to, uh, really appreciate food.”

“I do,” Bucky said, blushing, and he jostled his belly a little with the inside of his wrist, drumstick still in hand. “This is mostly take-out, though.”

“But Steve,” Darcy said. “Steve bakes, right?”

Phil said, “Steve is your...?”

“Been best friends since we were kids,” Bucky said, enjoying the crackle of fried skin and the tang of salt. “No better guy in the world.”

“Best friends, huh?” Darcy said. 

Bucky dropped the chicken bone and reached for a biscuit, trying not to let on that his heart rate was jumping at her speculative tone. “Yup,” he said, smearing a pat of butter on top of the flaky dough. 

“A best friend who leaves notes with little hearts on them in your lunch bags?”

“You've seen those?” Bucky said, getting a little red. “Aw, no, it's not like that. He's just a big softie.”

“I put notes in my daughters' lunches,” Phil volunteered. 

Darcy smiled. “Notes that say, 'Can't wait to see you at home, big guy'?”

“You snoop,” Bucky said, laughing. “No, he's like that with everyone, really.”

“Okay, okay,” Darcy said, rolling her eyes. “If you say so.”

Bucky tucked back into his chicken, focusing on the tight heaviness of his bloating belly instead of the pitter-patter of his lovesick heart.

:::

“Does Steve ever sneak notes into your lunch?” Bucky asked Sam, not meeting his eyes. 

“What? Notes?” Sam glanced at him with an amused, knowing smile. “No, definitely not. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Bucky said. 

:::

“Wow, Buck,” Steve said. “Are those jeans getting tight already?”

“I don't think so,” Bucky lied, and barely managed to wedge his thumb beneath the waistband. “See? Plenty of room.”

“I don't know,” Steve said, letting go of the shopping cart so he could circle him like a musclebound shark. They were in the grocery store, in the frozen foods aisle, and Bucky had been eyeing a Sara Lee cheesecake. “Your, uh, your butt's really starting to chunk out.”

This was true. His ass was undeniably plumper, rounder, and, though Steve couldn't know this, it had started to dimple. He could feel it mounding up behind him when he sat, now, spreading across the seats of his chairs. 

“Your thighs, too,” Steve was saying.

Bucky could see the ghost of their reflection in the glass freezer doors; could see Steve's trim waist and strong arms, his frame so slim and firm next to Bucky's thick, big-bellied figure. He was squeezed into a black hoodie he'd had to ask Sam to help him zip, and the elasticized band at the bottom clung to the curve of his lower belly, which was softer than the rest of his firm gut and was beginning to swell like a teardrop, though it hadn't yet started to sag. The silver zipper rode the bloated curve of his stomach, a neat delineation of just how far his gut was starting to stick out from the rest of his body. At first most of the weight had settled in that round gut, but he was getting noticeably wider, now, too. 

God, he had to stop looking at the reflected contrast between him and Steve, or he'd cream himself in public. The thought of Steve's hard body pressed against his soft one was more than he could take.

He opened the freezer door, caught it open with his left shoulder and worked a couple boxes of cheesecakes free, dropped them into the cart. “I might have put on a few pounds,” he allowed. 

“Probably don't need those cheesecakes,” Steve said, adding two gallons of chocolate ice cream to the cart. 

“Probably not,” Bucky agreed, pointing to the Stouffer's family-size Mac and Cheese. Obligingly, Steve grabbed a few. 

“No wonder you're getting so heavy,” Steve said, “eating like this.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky said, and motioned to a giant box of frozen jalapeño poppers. 

“Three hundred calories for five,” Steve read off the side, before tossing it on top of the ice cream in their cart. “You'll probably eat the whole box in one sitting. Ten servings in one go.”

“They're so good, Stevie, I can never stop at just five, you know that.”

“Anyone who looks at you would know that,” Steve said, and reached forward to pat his sloped tummy, which quivered a little. Bucky quivered too, from sheer desire and delight. It was rare for Steve to touch him on the belly, and every time he did it Bucky nearly expired. Steve's hand landed right at the highest swell, just inches away from where his chubby pecs were beginning to settle. “Bet you could rest a bowl on here and not spill it,” Steve said, and took his hand away, like an angel taking back a blessing. 

“Maybe if I was sitting down,” Bucky said, lightheaded. 

“You know, most people move to the West Coast and drop weight,” Steve said. “They hike, they climb, they eat organic... But you did the reverse. God, you were in amazing shape when you got here! Now I bet you couldn't even do a sit-up.”

“I sure ain't gonna try any time soon.” Bucky smoothed his own hand down the wide expanse of gut, rubbed his thumb across the teeny strip of sensitive underbelly that his sweatshirt didn't quite cover. 

“We should probably hurry up and pay,” Steve said. “Don't want you getting tired, wandering around like this. More exercise than you've had in weeks, probably.”

“Oh, I could go all day,” Bucky purred.

They stared at each other, red-faced. 

“On second thought,” Bucky said, “we should get outta here.” If they didn't, someone was gonna have to call for a clean-up on aisle 6. 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “It's getting late.”

In Steve's dumb little Prius, Bucky sat in the passenger seat, hyper-aware of Steve's gaze as he pulled the seatbelt across his belly, grunting and straining to reach around his bulk with his right hand. He was starting to really have to suck in and squeeze just to buckle his own seatbelt, god. 

“Whew,” he said, as the buckle snapped into place. He let out his held breath, watching his belly balloon back outward, too, coming to rest on his thighs. He adjusted the upper strap across his chest, which was not only getting pretty pudgy but also a little tender, more sensitive than he was used to. Just that morning he'd found a little pink stretchmark zigzagging from his left nipple. He shifted his weight a little, scootching his bigger ass backwards and spreading his chunky thighs ever-so-slightly so his belly had some more room, just an extra inch or so. He patted the top of his right thigh, noticing how the denim was starting to stress on the inner seam. “You're right,” he told Steve. “I think my thighs are getting fatter.”

“All of you is,” Steve said, and reached over to flip down the passenger-side visor mirror so Bucky could see himself. “Look how chubby your cheeks are getting.” He hesitated, then pinched a little of the pudge that had developed along Bucky's jawline. “You've got a real double chin now, even when you're not looking down.”

Bucky touched the softness there, saw that Steve was right, that his chin had settled into a cushion of chub he could only hide if he stretched his neck up. 

“I bet you're hungry right now,” Steve said. 

“I am,” said Bucky.

“Bet you'd happily eat an entire block of cheese by the time we got home, if I let you,” Steve said. 

“I would,” said Bucky, heart beating fast.

Steve, not meeting his eyes, twisted in his seat and rummaged around in one of the brown paper shopping bags, came up with a big plastic-wrapped block of orange cheddar. “You'd just eat it later, anyway,” Steve said, picking the wrapper open for him, gaze intent on his task. “May as well do it here, so I can keep an eye on you. Keep track of how many calories you're really eating.”

“Help me keep it under control,” Bucky agreed, breathlessly, and took the bare block of cheese in his hand, trying not to think too hard about what was happening. This was decadent even for him, and it felt deliciously naughty, biting into the cheese like it was a candy bar and letting the rich taste wash over his tongue as he hunked off another huge bite. 

Steve's knuckles were white where they were clenched around the wheel, and he kept sneaking little three-cornered peeks at Bucky as he drove, glancing first at the disappearing block of cheese, then at Bucky's tummy, then at Bucky's face. Bucky could feel his belly jiggle as they bounced over potholes and speedbumps, and not for the first time he wished he had two hands, so he could eat with one and hold onto his belly with the other. He still wasn't used to there being so very much of him, and the jiggle was disconcerting. Disconcerting, too, was how hard the cheese was hitting him. It wasn't that much, just one 8-ounce block, but it was surprisingly difficult to eat this much cheese unmediated: the intensity of it was soon overwhelming, thick on his tongue, heavy in his throat. He wasn't getting full or anything – far from it – but the flavor was overwhelming. 

“Stevie,” he said at a stoplight, “can you rustle up some crackers, or something?”

Steve bit his lip and rummaged around in the backseat, came up with a baguette. “This work?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, “perfect,” and tucked it between his thighs so he could tear off a big hunk. This was how cheese was meant to be eaten, after all, with bread; and it was a lot easier this way to shove it in his mouth and chew. 

“You've only got about six more minutes before we get home,” Steve said, and Bucky tore off another enormous piece of bread and managed to get it haphazardly split open so he could stick the remaining cheese inside it, like the world's thickest cheese sandwich, and took a bite so big he was surprised he didn't choke. 

Why was he doing this? It's not like Steve had challenged him – not directly – and it's not like he really wanted to cram pure cheddar into his mouth – but Steve seemed to want him to? And god knows he'd do anything Steve wanted, at this point. Even if it was just some vicarious gym-trainer thing, wanting to see Bucky eat what he himself never would; if it made Steve happy, Bucky was happy. 

And full. Getting a bit full. 

He swallowed the last hunk of bread and cheese as they pulled up in front of their house, and he let out an eager, “Done.”

“Jesus,” Steve said, his pupils dilated. “You ate half a baguette, too. You must be – are you full?”

Bucky hiccuped painfully, and draped his hand across his stomach. “Only 'cause I ate so fast.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “It's because you ate so fast. Not because what you ate was half a loaf of bread and about 10 times a normal serving of full-fat cheddar.”

“Right,” Bucky said, hiccuping again. “Ow.”

“You're not just chunky anymore, Buck,” Steve said. 

“No?”

“No,” Steve said. “You're really getting fat.”

Bucky looked down at himself, at the broad stomach straining the zipper of his hoodie, at the way his thighs spread out on the seat. “Am not.”

“Getting there,” Steve repeated. “Fuck, look at that belly. Must be heavy.”

“It is,” Bucky admitted.

“Tell you what, big guy,” Steve said. “I'll carry the groceries in. You carry in that fat gut of yours.”

Bucky knew he probably should argue, but in truth he was a little queasy from eating so much so fast, so he let Steve load himself up with the bags and followed him empty-armed, his hand in the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie so he could cup his gurgling belly. Which was, in fact, feeling pretty heavy. 

As soon as they were in the kitchen, Bucky dropped onto a chair while Steve started putting the dishes away. He unzipped his hoodie to give himself easier stomach-soothing access, and the dome of his gut pushed out happily from the zipper, glad to be free. 

Sam wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the countertop as Steve moved around, putting pasta in the cupboard, bread in the breadbox, carrots in the fridge. 

“Ooh,” Sam said, “frozen cheesecake! Haven't had one of those in years.”

“Why don't you make one now?” Steve said, handing him a box. “Bucky was just complaining in the car about how hungry he was.” He looked over his shoulder at Bucky, mouth quirked, as if daring him to protest. Of course Bucky couldn't give him the satisfaction.

“Yeah,” he said, “I could go for a snack.”

Sam shrugged and went to pre-heat the oven, reading the back of the box as he turned the dial. “Says it's gonna take a half hour,” he said. “If you're that hungry, Bucky, I was thinking about making a grilled cheese sandwich – you want one too, while we wait?”

Oh, jesus christ, not more cheese. Bucky opened his mouth to decline, but Steve beat him to it.

“Grilled cheese, and then cheesecake?” Steve said. “Buck, you don't need all that. Just be patient and wait for the cake.”

“Steve,” Sam said warningly. “Bucky can have whatever he wants.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Bucky said. “I'd love a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Steve turned away, but not before Bucky saw his satisfied smirk. The devil. 

A few minutes later, Sam plopped a butter-crisp grilled cheese onto a plate in front of him, and Bucky dutifully dug in. He started to eat quickly, trying to get it over with, but it was so good he soon slowed down, savoring each melty bite. Steve was at the table with them, by this point, arms folded, watching. As was becoming habit, Bucky moved his butt back and spread his legs so he could lean forward better, his belly dipping between his thighs, and then he scooted his chair as close to the table as he could so his belly could press into the edge a little. In the absence of an extra hand, the pressure felt as good as it was going to get. He finished the sandwich easily, although his stomach was beginning to hurt, a little. 

He leaned back in his chair and watched his belly unmound just a little from where it'd been rounded up on his thighs, then snuck a hand beneath the hem of his snug t-shirt and cupped the fat undercurve where his stomach was pudgiest. He let out a heavy sigh, tired and relaxed and maybe a little cheese-drunk, and felt how his stomach grew even rounder as he inhaled. 

The oven timer let out a merry Ding! And Steve went to fetch the aluminum tin of cheesecake, plus three plates and forks from the dish rack. He cut himself and Sam slim, modest pieces, but on Bucky's plate he put nearly a quarter of the cake. 

“Let's eat this in the living room and watch Jeopardy,” Bucky suggested, wanting nothing more than to stretch out on the couch and give his stomach some room, and they all picked up their plates and trooped out of the kitchen. Steve, Bucky couldn't help but notice, took the remaining tin of cheesecake with them, too. 

They clicked on the TV, and Bucky tried to get comfortable on the sofa between Sam and Steve. He shifted from side to side and perched the plate on his knees so he could tug down the white tee he had on under his hoodie, then wiggled his ass back against the cushions, feeling how fat it was getting and how his lower back was chunking up into a spare tire all its own. 

“So,” Steve said, “can you rest that plate on your gut, you think?”

“Rogers, come on,” Sam said. 

“Oh, we were kidding around about this earlier,” Bucky said to Sam. “But I appreciate your white knighting.”

“Seriously, though,” Steve continued, and reached across the couch to give the apex of Bucky's belly a quick, firm pat. Twice in one day! “Let's see what you've got.”

Bucky picked up the plate and tried to balance it on his gut with no hand, but there wasn't quite enough shelf space to hold it without tipping. Close – but not quite. “Need a few more inches,” he said, and finally took a bite of the cheesecake, which did, despite his vague nausea, smell amazing. 

It was nice to have some sweetness after all the salty cheese, and he sucked on the fork, breathing a little heavily through his nose. God, it was rich, so creamy and thick. His stomach let out a small gurgle as he kept shoveling cheesecake into it, determined to finish the plate and put it aside so he could give his tummy a good rub for a while.

But Steve Rogers had other plans. No sooner had Bucky sucked the last bite of cheesecake off his fork, then Steve was taking his plate to load him another huge serving, saying, “Sorry for what I said earlier, Buck, Sam's right, you should have as much cheesecake as you want.”

Was this some sort of fucked-up gym trainer reverse-psychology? Bewildered, Bucky accepted the second piece of cheesecake with trepidation. He really was getting full, and he let out a few discreet belches, shifted his weight again. He could finish this piece, no problem – the cheesecake was so soft, he didn't even have to chew, so it was only a matter of swallowing. So close now!

But, “Here,” Steve said, as Bucky swallowed the last bite with some relief, and he hoisted another slice onto the plate on Bucky's lap. “I know you want it.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Sam groaned. “You're gonna pop that boy like a balloon.”

“Nah,” Steve said. “Look at this gut. It's got plenty of room.”

Then, miracle of miracles, he patted Bucky's belly again – but this time, his palm lingered, smoothed a full, concentric circle across the warm, swollen swell of it, the peak where it curved out from beneath his pudgy pecs. His t-shirt dragged pleasurably across the tortured, stretched-out skin, and the movement pulled the hem a little, so the place where his bare, chunky hip pushed over his waistband was exposed. Bucky nearly came right then and there. He'd never wanted to buck his hips so badly, push his belly into Steve's touch, but he held completely still, hardly daring to breath. Then Steve's hand was gone, and Bucky wanted it back as much as he'd ever wanted anything. 

To cover his response, he stuffed a bite of cheesecake into his mouth. Sam sighed the put-upon sigh of a man surrounded by fools, and Bucky tried not to groan too audibly. His stretched stomach was beginning to pass the pleasure/pain thresh-hold, and it felt almost comically distended. He huffed a difficult breath, and choked his third piece of cheesecake down much faster than could be healthy, just a few enormous, hastily-gulped bites before he set his empty plate on his knees so he could lean back and pull open his belt with a clank. And then, fuck it, he flicked open the button, too, and let his tummy push his zipper downward so it could bloat outwards between the flaps of his pants. It felt solidly heavy, and radiated a deep ache.

“Making room for more?” Steve said, and jesus christ, put the rest of the cheesecake on Bucky's plate. 

“Trying,” Bucky said, though really what he was trying to do was catch his breath. Fuck, he was full. He pressed his hand hard into the bulge of belly that surrounded his ribs, and was rewarded with a painful burp that left just a modicum of relief in its wake. He blew out a hard breath, sucked in a shallow one. His armpits were damp, he realized, and his brow was wet from the exertion of eating. When he tugged on his t-shirt he saw two teeny half-moon slivers of sweat from where his pecs were starting to rest on his gut. With a hand that felt as heavy as if there were a weight attached to it, he picked up the plate. 

“What is this, some macho shit?” Sam said, clearly amused despite himself.

Bucky, mouth full, couldn't answer. Steve was staring at him unabashedly, and he shoved another bite into his mouth, trying to trick his body into accepting far more than it wanted to. He swallowed a thick, sweet mouthful, followed it with an even bigger one, his stomach letting out a loud, displeased gurgle. Steve kept staring, eyes on his swollen belly. 

Bucky knew what he himself was getting out of this: A spectacular orgasm later that night. 

But what was Steve's motivation? Why'd he make him eat that block of cheese, the sandwich, and now all this cake? Was Sam right? Was this some macho shit? Was he trying to prove a point? (So you want to eat? Eat!)

Or did he... like Bucky... get off on this kind of thing?

Bucky banished the thought before he had time to really mull it over, because no, that was a daydream he didn't dare indulge in. There was no way that Steve Rogers, hardbody gym-bunny green-juicing Steve Rogers, would have any kind of interest in the complete opposite of everything he stood for, everything he was. 

Right?

Bucky swallowed the last bite and leaned forward to put his plate on the coffee table with some difficulty, spreading his thighs so his hugely swollen belly could have some room, but even then it hurt to move like that. He fell back against the couch cushions with a moan he couldn't quite stifle. He dug the heel of his hand into the side of his gut, then flattened his palm and began stroking the curve side-to-side, skimming across his itchy, stretched belly button from one hip to the other – though with just one hand, his right side got a hell of a lot more attention than his left. God, if Steve would just reach over and help him out... 

“You okay, man?” Sam said. 

“I'm good,” Bucky wheezed. “Huuurp. 'Scuse me. Ugh, god. Whew.”

“I'll be right back,” Steve said abruptly, and disappeared up the stairs towards his room before either Bucky or Sam could say anything. Not that Bucky was in any state to speak. He could barely breathe, so stuffed was he. 

“Hey,” Sam said. “You want me to talk to him?”

“Talk?” Bucky said dazedly, cupping his poor stomach. 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Tell him to lay off you a little? Weight fluctuates, he knows that, and if you're happy, he should be happy, too.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, and felt kind of warm and fuzzy that Sam wanted to defend him. “No, no,” he said, “I...”

He what? He couldn't very well come out and say, Actually, Steve giving me shit about my gut is kind of integral to my nightly jizz-sessions, so don't worry?

“I really don't mind,” he finished, lamely. “Steve's just... it's kind of a joke between us, I guess? But it's sweet, Sam, you looking out for me.”

“If you're sure,” Sam said doubtfully.

“I'm sure,” Bucky said, with as much sincerity as he could muster in his food-stuffed state. “Besides,” he said, and patted the side of his belly, shrugging. “He has a point. When I got here I was 190. Now I'm closing in on 250.” 

“Wow,” Sam said involuntarily, then, “Sorry, I mean... But wow.”

“What, you couldn't tell from looking at me?” Bucky said, and smiled to show he didn't mind.

“You know, as long as you're happy,” Sam repeated. 

“Happier than ever,” Bucky said honestly. 

:::

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky muttered.

It was 2pm and he'd just finished his now-habitual second lunch, this time a double cheeseburger from a burger truck around the corner from his office, and he'd undone his top button while finishing his onion rings... but now everyone was leaving, and he couldn't get it done back up. It was hard with one hand – and even harder with a big, stuffed gut in the way.

“You coming?” Darcy said, hand on her hip. “Or are you gonna try and get a new job flipping burgers?”

“One second,” Bucky said, still struggling beneath the cover of the plastic table, and finally he felt his button slip into place. He began to hoist himself up with great relief, and not a little triumph, but it was short-lived – from behind him came a terrible, tell-tale ripping sound. 

Darcy's mouth fell into a shocked little O. “Was that what I think it was?”

“God, I hope not,” Bucky said, but a quick grope of his own ass told the terrible truth.

“You split your pants,” Darcy said, delighted. “Holy shit, I thought that only happened in movies.”

“No,” Bucky says, “it happens when you gain weight and put off buying new pants.”

Darcy was giggling uncontrollably now. “I always knew you had a powerful booty,” she said, “but wow!”

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Bucky said glumly, shrugging out of his flannel so he could arrange it and cover up the evidence. “How bout you lend me a hand, huh?”

Still giggling, Darcy came over and tied the sleeves of his flannel beneath the jut of his belly, which was just barely contained by his white t-shirt. Her knuckles brushed a slice of pudgy bare skin as she worked, and he suppressed a shiver. The fattening curve of his underbelly was getting pretty sensitive, as were his pecs, which were puffy and peaked and perky. 

“Thanks,” Bucky said. “Can you tell?”

“Mission mask power booty, accomplished!” Darcy said, thumping his belly like a drum. 

“Oof,” Bucky said. 

He was antsy for the rest of the workday, could feel his chunky ass pressing out of the rip across the right cheek of his pants, and the tear had done nothing to alleviate the pressure from his too-tight waistband. God, he'd outgrown these pretty quickly – and he'd gotten a couple sizes up, even, anticipating the possibility of this very occurrence. His new shirts, too, were already snug, pulled across the prominence of his gut and beginning to outline the roll that creased his waist and continued around his back. 

But it wasn't just discomfort that had him fidgeting.

It was the thought of Steve's face when he saw Bucky's split pants. 

Because Bucky, sick fuck that he was, couldn't wait to get home and show him. 

“Jesus,” was Steve's choked comment.

“I mean, I knew I'd put on a little more weight,” Bucky said, “but I guess I didn't realize how much? Can't even really zip up my favorite hoodie, anymore. This gets in the way.” He smacked his belly once as Darcy had done, liking the loud thump it pronounced, then patted it more gently. Mustered his courage and asked Steve, “Is it noticeable?” 

“I noticed your pants looked kind of tight,” Steve said, his voice curiously husky. “Gut's definitely getting even rounder, and your butt's been looking pretty big, too. I'm not – I'm not surprised those pants gave up the ghost.”

Bucky dropped into a kitchen chair and looked down at where his belly was mounding up in his lap. He thumbed at the deepening hollow of his belly button beneath his t-shirt, and leaned back so he could flick open his pants button, sighing a little at the release of pressure. His zipper slowly slid down and his stomach pooled out between the flaps. Steve watched his every move, pupils very large and black in his blue eyes. 

“You have piled on some serious weight, Buck,” Steve said. 

“I guess so,” Bucky said. 

“Look at this belly you've put on,” Steve continued, and, thank all the gods, rested his hand on the firm bloated crest of it, gave it a couple squeezes, then – tragedy of tragedies – released it. “Even your hand is getting fat.”

Surprised, Bucky looked down at his hand, and noticed it was true – his palm and fingers were looking a little doughy, and his wrist was softer than it'd been. “Huh,” he said. 

“I think you should come to the gym with me sometime next week,” Steve said. 

“Sorry?” Bucky said, looking up in horror. That was not what he'd been expecting. 

“It can take a toll on your body, adding so many pounds so quickly, and I just... I just want to make sure everything's in order. Run a couple tests.”

“Are there treadmills involved in these tests?”

“Maybe,” Steve hedged. “But if you'll come, I'll buy you dinner afterwards. We can go to that pasta place you were talking about last week.”

“Then ice cream?”

Steve heaved a sigh, but he didn't look too put-out. “Fine. Then ice cream.”

“I can get off work a little early next Thursday,” Bucky suggested. “Meet you there?”

“It's a date,” Steve said, and they both turned beet red. 

:::

That night, Bucky examined himself in the mirror, remembering some months ago when he'd first realized his chin was veering into plural territory. It was firmly in that land, now, his cheeks rounded and his jawline dissolved into squish. His chest was wide and soft and his pudgy pecs were clearly outlined under his t-shirt, and his belly was so round he almost laughed. It was softer first thing in the morning, not so spherical, but now, with about six square meals under his belt, it was thick and bulbous and stood out proudly from his body like a pregnant woman's. His ass, too, was round and protruding and wobbled when he moved. His arm was soft, elbow beginning to dimple. His back, wide. 

Jeez, he was really getting big. No wonder his back had been hurting lately.

His shuffled over to his bed, flopped down onto the covers and leaned against the headboard, stared at the mountain of belly that obscured his entire lower body. 

He thought of what he'd agreed to do the following week – let Steve drag him to the gym and poke and prod him – and felt a little shiver of anticipatory pleasure and doubt in equal measures. 

This would be interesting.


	5. Working Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn ahead. I mean real porn, not just a thousand synonyms for "fat," which is, let's face it, just as good as porn for some of us (ahem, me). 
> 
> Probably gonna wring another chapter out of this.

Steve was distracted all Thursday. He sleepwalked his way through his 9am Burn It! session, forgot to put on music in his yoga class, and nearly dropped a 50-pound weight on a client's head. All he could think about was 4pm, and his meeting with Bucky. 

Bucky, who showed up at 4:03 in a too-tight blue t-shirt and a pair of grey track pants stretched so tight over his ass Steve could see the hint of soft dimples in his round cheeks. He paused at the front desk, big belly pressing into the counter as he leaned over to the speak to the receptionist, and his pudgy face tinted a shy pink as he caught sight of Steve waiting for him. His hair was pulled up into a half-ponytail. 

“It's okay, he's with me,” Steve said to the receptionist. To Bucky, he said, “C'mon, let's head upstairs.”

Steve gestured for Bucky to go first, because he was a gentleman; not because he wanted to keep an eye on that luscious ass as Bucky plodded up the two flights to the top floor, no. Bucky went slow, hand on the rail, and by the time they reached the landing Steve could hear him breathing a little harder than normal, the way he did in the middle of a large meal. The nervous pink of his cheeks had turned into a more natural flush. 

“So, I was thinking we'd start by weighing you,” Steve said. “Get a handle on what we're working with. Then run through a few tests, easy stuff, just some strength, a little endurance, see where you're at. And of course you can say no to anything you're not comfortable with. This is all standard practice for new clients. Sound good?”

“You're the boss here,” Bucky said, still a little out of breath from the stairs, hand resting on his fleshy hip. 

Steve's chest fluttered hotly at those words, but he nodded with a practiced air, willing himself to channel professional-Steve, rather than perving-on-his-best-friend Steve. He led Bucky to the small locker room right by the entrance to the upstairs track; usually the quietest, least-crowded of the three locker rooms, and today was no exception. It was empty save for one older man, who was lacing up a pair of purple running shoes in preparation to leave. They had the place to themselves. 

“Scale's right this way,” Steve said, his palms sweating. He hadn't been directly privy to Bucky's weight since that first time about six months ago, when Bucky'd weighed a cool 228, but several weeks ago he'd heard from Sam that Bucky was around 250. “When's the last time you weighed yourself?”

“Oh, man, gotta be at least a couple months now,” Bucky said. “Think I was 245 or so? But I know I've put on a few pounds since then... Busted my pants, obviously, and as you can see, my shirts aren't far behind.”

Yes, Steve could see. The blue shirt clung to the sphere of Bucky's belly, and clearly outlined the deep circle of his navel. And the rounder Bucky got, the less Steve could keep himself from touching. Even now, as if moved by some unseen force, his hand was floating towards Bucky and coming to settle on the taut warmth of his tummy. He contented himself with a quick belly-pat, feeling the sweet solidity of it and the way it quivered ever so slightly – though what he wanted was to drag his hand down to the little bit of belly that was poking out over his waistband, feel that soft, bare skin, heft that gut upward and really feel the weight of it in his hands.

He yanked his hand away, cleared his throat. Bucky was staring down at the place his hand had been, flushed – with embarrassment? With something else?

“Why don't you hop on the scale?” Steve said, and dutifully, Bucky obeyed. 

It was a sliding-gauge scale, like in a doctor's office, and Steve swallowed when he saw that Bucky had to stand kilted sideways so his belly didn't bump up into the stand. The metal shifted and clanked, but Bucky made no move towards it, so Steve stepped close and adjusted the gauge, his heartrate sliding upwards with the scale. It passed 245 handily, and finally settled, to Steve's amazement. 

“267,” Steve said, huskily. 

“Wow,” Bucky said, seeming truly surprised. “That's more than twenty pounds.” He looked down at himself, that sweet double chin even more pronounced. “Fuck, I mean, it's more than fifty pounds, if you count from when I moved here.”

“Buck, counting from when you moved here, it's more then seventy pounds. Nearly eighty.”

“Jesus,” Bucky said. “I mean, I know I've gotten bigger, obviously, but when you put it like that... No wonder I can't button any of my new pants. Can barely fit into these sweatpants, anymore, and they were new too! Look at this.” Bucky folded down the waistband to show Steve the angry red lines on his chunky love handle. Steve managed a small, sympathetic noise, though his attention was caught by the silvery stretch marks and that delicious swell of skin. “Even my shoes feel a little tight,” Bucky continued, folding the waistband back up. “Think my feet are getting fat, too.”

“Or they're swollen from carrying so much weight,” Steve said. “Like a pregnant woman's.”

“I do look a little pregnant, don't I?” Bucky said ruefully. “Especially with these tits.” He reached up to cup one of the round, pudging pecs that rested on the shelf of his belly, and Steve nearly choked. 

“Well,” Steve said, when he could speak again, “you've been eating for two, that's for sure.”

“Don't forget you promised me dinner after this,” Bucky said, looking up hopefully.

“Listen to yourself,” Steve said. “Spoken like a true fat-ass. C'mon, tubby. Let's start with a few easy laps around the track.”

Steve remembered clearly a time when he himself couldn't run more than twenty feet without collapsing, asthmatic lungs on fire, skinny body shaking from exertion. Bucky, in those days, could run five miles without breaking a sweat. Now, their positions had sharply reversed.

Bucky managed one lap with Steve trotting very slowly beside him, watching the bounce of Bucky's ass and belly, nearly coordinated in their jiggle and sway. Halfway through the lap Bucky was breathing hard already, and he wrapped his arm around his gut as if trying to support it. In motion like this, Steve could see every pound of weight Bucky had put on: the front-heavy belly, the heaving sides, the swollen ass, the thick chafing thighs, the chubby red face with those lush parted lips as Bucky panted. 

“Hard to, balance, with one, arm,” Bucky wheezed. 

“Excuses, excuses,” Steve said. “One more lap.”

“Stevie,” Bucky pleaded, but he kept jogging, releasing his belly to swing his arm a little, try and get some momentum, and Steve watched Bucky's tummy bob heavily up and down over his waistband, the snug t-shirt riding up and displaying several fat inches of swollen underbelly. Bucky kept tugging at it, but it crept back up instantly. He was out-of-breath for real, now, and had begun sweating although it'd only been about five minutes. Steve could see his damp underarms and a slight damp patch beginning on the fabric stretched tight over his chunky lower back. 

“My knees, are, killing me,” Bucky panted halfway through lap number two, and that's when Steve called it, because he didn't want to put any undue strain on Bucky's already-strained joints. As soon as Steve said, “Stop!” Bucky bent over, his belly rolling out onto his thighs as he propped his hand on his knee, trying to catch his breath. 

“Not even half a mile,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Man, Bucky, you are outta shape. I see people as big as you running marathons no problem, you know that? But you've just been sitting on your ass stuffing your face for the past year.”

“Fuck,” Bucky panted, still bent over. “Feel like I'm gonna puke.”

Steve patted him on his broad back, feeling the plush that had settled over Bucky's muscles, sympathetic despite his arousal. “Let's get you some water,” he said, and led Bucky over to the water fountain, trying in vain not to stare at Bucky's big ass as he bent over to drink. When he straightened, he seemed a little better, though he was still pretty red-faced. 

“It's just, this is really heavy,” Bucky said, patting his gut. “Hard to lug around.”

“Well, maybe your legs have retained some muscle mass,” Steve said. “What with the eighty extra pounds they're carrying.”

They headed over to the weight machines, and Steve got Bucky situated on the quad raise, sitting in the chair with his chunky thighs pressed together, calfs hooked under the padded weight. His belly mounded up on his lap and as he raised the first set of weights his face squished down adorably into that cute double chin, cheeks puffing out in concentration, but it seemed Steve was right – his legs were still strong. He managed three sets of 12 reps, though he was sweaty by the time they were finished, hairline damp, a ring starting around his neck. 

He'd kept strength in his arm and chest, too, and neither the bicep curl nor the pec fly proved too problematic. He accepted Steve's high five with bashful pride, and Steve couldn't help noticing the smiles of sweat on his chest, from where his pecs were nestled against his belly. There were sweat stains starting in the crease of his sides, too. 

“Not so out of shape after all, huh?” Bucky said. 

“Let's try a few sit-ups,” Steve said.

He stretched Bucky out on a mat by the mirrors, admiring how roundly Bucky's belly rose up before him even in that flat position. From this angle it was even more evident how tight Bucky's sweats were, how they'd been situated below his pudgy lower belly and were biting into his love handles. 

“Okay,” Steve said. “Come up and touch your elbow to your knees.”

With a loud grunt, Bucky strained to do as Steve said, but his belly got in the way almost immediately – he had to readjust and spread his legs more so his tummy had room to push between them instead of squishing. He got up, though – barely. 

“Again,” Steve said. 

Bucky did it again. And again, and again. Six times, his face bright red, his breath wheezing as he struggled to sit up a seventh time, and failed. He flopped onto his back, arm outstretched, his belly quivering as he panted. “I'm done,” he said. “Need a rest.”

“Six sit-ups,” Steve said. “Do you think that's impressive?”

Bucky shook his head, and Steve knelt down beside him. “Where the hell did your abs go, Buck?” he said. “You used to have a goddamn twelve-pack, and now...” As if magnetized, he dropped his hand on Bucky's belly. Instead of patting it, as usual, he allowed it to just rest there, feeling how hot the skin was, how fast Bucky's breath was coming. “Look at this,” he said. “No wonder you can only do six sit-ups. Look how porky you've let yourself get.” He squeezed, feeling that wonderful firm softness, a contradiction, so pudgy and round yet so solid, too. “Isn't it uncomfortable, lying there with this big gut weighing on you?”

“Gotta sleep on my side, now,” Bucky said. 

“Jesus,” Steve said. He trailed his hand down and finally, finally allowed his fingers to stroke over that strip of bare skin. Bucky was fleshier down here, squishier and even rounder, his lower belly wider and more swollen than the upper, like a water balloon at its max. It was a wonder his belly hadn't started to sag, yet. “Eighty pounds,” Steve said. “Twenty more and you'll have gained a hundred pounds, a hundred fucking pounds, Bucky. No wonder you can't run. No wonder you can't do sit-ups. No wonder you're so damn lazy that all you wanna do is sit around and outgrow all your clothes.” Now that he was finally touching that warm, stretched skin, he couldn't stop. He patted, he jiggled, he peeled back just an inch or so of Bucky's tight shirt, just one little inch, wanting to feel one of those pink stretchmarks soft beneath his fingers. 

So focused was he on Bucky's belly that he didn't, for a long moment, notice what was happening mere inches below that maxed-out waistband. Only the stutter and quiver of Bucky's stomach as Bucky's caught his breath clued him into the very obvious, very large erection that was straining painfully against Bucky's tight sweatpants. 

He looked at that tent in Bucky's pants, then looked at Bucky's face. Bucky's head was arched back and his eyes were squeezed shut, and he was biting his full lower lip so hard Steve could see teethmarks starting. It was a wanton expression, totally unself-conscious, all of Bucky seemingly as concentrated on Steve's hand as Steve had been, and Steve nearly gasped at the strength of his own arousal. It moved like fire in him, and his fingers on Bucky's belly clenched in response, mechanical, gripping a hunk of Bucky's fat tummy with a strength he couldn't control. Bucky's eyes flew open at the unexpected pain, and then they were staring at each other, Steve crouched over Bucky, both of them breathing hard, Bucky's belly rising and falling with his shocked little breaths, his cock straining the soft material of his pants, Steve's own dick rising to attention in his basketball shorts. In the middle of the gym where Steve worked. 

“Um,” Bucky said, those blue eyes nearly as round as his tummy. 

“We should – ” Steve said. 

“I didn't mean to – ”

“Let's go get – ”

“I'm feeling a little –”

“Um,” said Steve. And then, boldly, so there could be no mistaking what he wanted, what they clearly both wanted, he let go of Bucky's belly and moved his hand to the swell of Bucky's dick, gave it one, gentle loving squeeze that had Bucky moving his hips and gasping, and then he let go. He felt dizzy with the line he'd just crossed, dizzy and turned-on and hopeful and so, so happy. “Go get dressed,” Steve said, “and I'll take you out to dinner.”

He stood, then, because he couldn't take Bucky's proximity for another second, and strode quickly away, waddling a little to accommodate his own erection. He paused at the top of the stairs, glanced back to see Bucky rolling to his side so he could push himself into a sit, hunched over his big belly, clearly trying to compose himself. Then he turned away, willing himself to think of cold, skinny, flaccid things, so he could keep himself in control – for now. 

They met up down at the front entrance, Bucky squeezed into what must've been his work clothes for the day: a pair of jeans so tight he muffined out of them like banana bread, and a snug t-shirt topped by an even snugger flannel, clearly months away from being buttoned over the round push of Bucky's big belly. His face was still pink, and was damper than sweat accounted for – he'd probably splashed water on his face. Cold water, Steve bet, because he'd used a little cold water, himself. Bucky'd let his hair down, and it fell around his face, bringing out his beautiful bone structure, padded though it may be. 

“Hi,” Bucky said, coming to a stop in front of Steve. 

“Hi,” Steve said. 

“About what happened upstairs,” Bucky said, then trailed off, looking awkward and nervous and so sweet Steve could've cried. 

“Dinner?” Steve said, and, in front of the raised eyebrows of the front desk receptionist, offered his hand. Bucky stared at it. Steve was holding his breath in fear and hope, his heart beating a mile a minute, and, after several long, excruciating seconds, Bucky offered him a blinding grin, and took his hand. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm starved.”

They walked out together into the fading Seattle evening, every nerve of Steve's body concentrated on Bucky's warm, strong fingers wrapped around his own. They were holding hands. He, Steve Rogers, was holding Bucky Barnes' hand, in public, under a sunset, on a date. Was this a date?

“Is this a date?” Bucky said abruptly, echoing Steve's thoughts so precisely it was eerie. Over twenty years of friendship, you'd think he'd be used to it by now. 

“Yeah?” Steve said. “I mean, I'd like it to be. But if you don't want to, or if you're uncomfortable, or if it's weird or something, just say the word and we can --”

“I want it to be a date,” Bucky said. “So we're clear.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Ok, good.”

He was so busy smiling at Bucky that he nearly walked into a lamppost. Bucky tugged him away just in time, keeping firm hold of his hand.

“So where are you taking me on our first date?” Bucky said. 

Fuck. Steve had been thinking pizza or burgers or something, but Bucky was right, this was their first fucking date, he needed to step up his game, really commemorate the occasion. He bit his lip, thinking frantically. 

“Hey, Stevie, no, I don't care where we go,” Bucky said, but Steve snapped his fingers.

“We're going to the Met,” Steve said. “Get you the biggest steak on the menu.”

“It's almost 6:30,” Bucky said. “We'll never get a table.”

“Guy who owns it is a client of mine,” Steve said, pulling out his phone with the hand not firmly attached to Bucky's. “I'll call in a favor.”

“Steve, that place is crazy expensive,” Bucky said, but he was licking his lips, looking excited. 

“This is our first date,” Steve said. “If I'm not gonna splurge on that, then what?”

“I think our first date was when I stopped Tony Macklin from killing you and then bought you an ice cream soda,” Bucky said, grinning. “But have it your way.”

“It's about a twenty minute walk,” Steve said, eyeing Bucky with faux-concern. “If your sad performance on the track is anything to go by, I should probably get us an Uber. Don't wanna tire you out. Yet.”

“Probably a good idea,” Bucky said. 

When the Uber came, Steve gave their address and then said to the driver, loudly, “I know it's close, but my fat friend doesn't wanna walk that far.”

“Why walk when you can drive?” Bucky agreed, settling in, trying to get comfortable. “Fuck, these jeans are tight. Oof.”

“How'd you sit at a desk all day like this?” Steve wanted to know. He'd scooted in so he was sitting in the middle seat, pressed tight against Bucky's left side, where his arm would've been. He could feel the press of Bucky's chunky love handle. 

“What, you think I kept these buttoned?” Bucky snorted.

Steve dared to pat the fat lower swell of Bucky's tummy where it had settled onto his lap. His t-shirt wasn't inching up, but it would before dinner was over. “We're going to a fancy restaurant, and look at you, you're popping out of these clothes. It's completely inappropriate.”

“Can't help it,” Bucky said, arching into Steve's touch, his belly pushing out into his hand. “Just so fucking hungry all the time.”

The Uber driver seemed relieved to drop them off, urgently wishing them a good night before he sped away, and Steve smirked internally. He put a hand on Bucky's pudgy lower back, feeling the spill of flesh over his tight waistband, and guided him gentlemanlike into the dark, candle-lit interior of the steakhouse. 

“Two for Rogers,” he said to the waifish hostess, and she checked the book, her black-lined eyes widening in recognition. 

“Of course,” she said, “right this way,” and led them to a little corner table beneath a beautiful chandelier, all flickering lights and glinting wine glasses. “Your server will be right with you,” she said. “Anything you need, please let us know.”

Steve pulled Bucky's chair out for him, and then pushed it in until the swell of Bucky's stomach was just brushing the edge of the table. “If you want to move your chair back,” he said, “you should ask me, first.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, eyes shining. 

Steve sat across from him, and took a moment to appreciate how beautiful Bucky looked by candlelight, his big blue eyes, gorgeous soft skin, that shade of stubble on his jaw doing nothing to disguise his chubby chin. 

“Can't believe we're doing this,” Bucky said. “You 'n me.”

“Been wanting this for a long time,” Steve admitted.

“Me too,” Bucky breathed, and Steve reached for his hand again, intertwined their fingers and just let himself be purely, gloriously happy. He let go only reluctantly when their waiter, a tall whippet-like young man, came around bearing water and a big basket of still-steaming bread. 

“May I bring you something to drink?” he asked.

Steve ordered a bottle of red wine, and then, “How about you bring us some appetizers, too? He'll have the lobster bisque and the thick-cut onion rings.”

“Very good. And for you, sir?” 

“Nothing for me,” Steve said, smiling. Bucky was watching him with parted lips, his eyes dark. “What are you waiting for?” Steve said, and slid the basket of bread towards Bucky. “I know you're hungry.”

Bucky didn't have to be told twice. Eyes still on Steve, he helped himself to several thick slices of the homemade bread, buttering them liberally and folding them eagerly into his mouth. Steve watched in open enjoyment, loving the way Bucky's lips closed around the bread, how his pudgy jaw worked back and forth, chubby cheeks swelling as he chewed.

The waiter appeared, poured wine, drifted away. 

“Aren't you going to have any?” Bucky said, hovering his hand over the bread basket again.

“No,” Steve said, and Bucky finished the entire basket just as his appetizers arrived. A steamy bowl of thick, creamy bisque, and a plate of enormous golden onion rings served with a side of curried aoli. 

“And are you ready to order your main course?” the waiter asked, as Bucky crunched into one of the onion rings. Bucky glanced at Steve, and Steve gave him a small nod.

“He'll have the 34-oz Porterhouse, a side of the caramelized bacon, and a side of the lobster mac and cheese,” Steve said.

“Wonderful,” the waiter said, a little nervously. “And it comes with a choice of potato...?”

“Mashed,” Steve said. “Why don't you give him some blue cheese sauce with all that, too.”

“Wonderful,” the waiter repeated. “And for you?”

“The roast chicken,” Steve said, taking great pleasure in the comparative modesty of his own order. 

“That's a lot of food,” Bucky said, slurping his creamy soup. “Wow, this is good. You want a bite?”

“I know that big gut of yours can handle it,” Steve said, and leaned over to accept a taste from Bucky's spoon. “Damn, that's delicious.”

“Want an onion ring?”

“I wouldn't want to deprive you,” Steve smirked, sipping his wine. 

Bucky made short order of both appetizers, gulping his wine in between big bites, obviously enjoying himself. A grin was playing on the corners of his greasy lips, and he let out a low, happy burp as soon as he'd cleaned his plates. 

“How was that for a warm-up?” Steve said, and Bucky let out another little belch. 

“Good,” he said, fidgeting a little in his chair, and he lowered his voice. “Pants are really starting to hurt, though.”

“Too bad we're in a fancy restaurant, and you can't unbutton them,” Steve said, voice oozing with fake-sympathy. 

“Ugh,” Bucky said, leaning back, belly skimming the table's edge. Was it Steve's imagination, or was it already bigger, more bloated, than it had been? He leaned over and poured Bucky a second glass of wine.

The waiter came to whisk away their empty appetizer dishes, and came back a moment later with heavily-laden arms. He unloaded the dishes one by one in front of Bucky; enormous steak, heaps of sugared bacon, mac and cheese bubbling in a ramekin, boat of blue cheese sauce, until the tablespace was nearly too crowded to even fit Steve's chicken. Bucky was staring with big eyes at the steak, which was comically enormous, taking up nearly the entire dinner platter and shining with fat. 

“Another bottle of wine, please,” Steve said. “And some extra butter for those potatoes.”

“You're gonna have to cut this up for me,” Bucky said, and Steve swapped plates with him so he could begin sawing that enormous steak into bite-sized pieces. He forked a tender piece and reached across the table so Bucky could take it delicately from his fork, his eyes fluttering closed briefly as he chewed.

“Good?” Steve said.

“So good,” Bucky said, and started in on the macaroni and cheese while Steve cut. The waiter came back with extra butter and a bottle of wine just as Steve was passing Bucky his heavy plate back. 

“Would you like me to open this now, or come back later?” the waiter asked politely. 

“Hang on,” Bucky said, and reached for his wine glass, chugged the last few sips and smacked his lips, then nodded. “Okay, pour away.”

If their server was horrified to see someone chugging a forty-dollar bottle of wine, he didn't show it, simply uncorked the bottle and poured Bucky another glass. After all, forty dollar wine in this place was probably Franzia compared to the other bottles. Steve, two glasses deep himself, smiled a little dopily to see Bucky glug that wine, his cheeks getting pink from the food and the alcohol. 

Bucky dunked a piece of his steak into the blue cheese sauce, then groaned in appreciation and poured the thick cheese all over his plate, smothering his heavily-buttered mashed potatoes. Steve stole a bite of the decadent macaroni and cheese, and marveled at the fact that Bucky was nearly done with it; it was so dense and rich he felt full after just that one bite, and here was Bucky, already a bread basket and two appetizers deep, demolishing the entire ramekin of macaroni. 

It was, as first dates went, perfect. They chatted with the same ease they'd always chatted, talking about everything and nothing, jumping from topic to topic in a conversation that would've seemed scattered to an outsider, but not to Steve and Bucky, who knew one another so well that they could follow the same train of hectic thought from one random station to the next with barely a pause. The only difference was the energy. Charged and excited, it took over the whole table and made every moment seem heightened. An accidental brush of fingers. The nudge of Bucky's foot against Steve beneath the table. A smile. Between Bucky, the wine, and the low lighting, Steve felt he was in a dream; a beautiful dream from which he never wanted to awaken. 

Through it all, Bucky was eating steadily. The macaroni was gone, and nearly half his steak had followed, plus most of the bacon. He was on his fourth glass of wine, a little hazy-eyed and red-cheeked, and he'd begun burping with abandon, pausing mid-bite to sip air and let out a rumbling belch, or just hissing little baby burps between sips of wine. His belly was pressed flush against the table's edge, now, and occasionally he put down his fork so he lean back as best he could and could try to adjust his tight jeans, wincing as he tried to pull down his waistband and give himself some space, to no avail. 

“God, I'm getting full,” Bucky commented, loading his fork with mashed potatoes. It was a statement of fact, nothing more, and he'd only slowed his feasting a little bit. He folded the last piece of bacon into his mouth and rubbed the place where the soft fat of his tummy was beginning to squeeze over the table. 

“Does it hurt?” Steve asked, concerned for Bucky's comfort. 

“A little,” Bucky said, and hiccuped. The table shuddered a little as his belly jumped. “Ouch, fuck. Now that hurt.” He hiccuped again. “Ow.”

But he didn't ask Steve to move his chair back, and after a few more painful, hiccuped moments, he dug back into his steak. He chewed with determined pleasure, pausing to lick cream from his lips or to reach under the table and try again to pull on his waistband. His belly bloated ever-further outwards as he chewed, and soon it was pressed so tightly into the table that even the waiter spared it a shocked glance as he came to clear away some plates. Both Steve and Bucky were too tipsy and turned-on to care. 

He had about a quarter of his steak left and a few bites worth of mashed potatoes when he really started to lag. He was clearly having trouble taking a deep breath, panting shallowly and chewing with his mouth open, and he kept pausing to lean back with a little groan. His brow was damp, and his face shone red and hot in the candlelight. “Fuck,” he panted. “Fuck, these pants are fucking killing me.”

“That's what happens when you eat like a pig,” Steve said. 

“Can I pull my chair back?” Bucky asked, finally, and Steve's own face flushed at Bucky's obedient voice.

“Why?” Steve said. “Is it uncomfortable? Did you eat so much your belly's even fatter than usual?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Think I added a few inches just sitting here.”

“Does that big gut need more room?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, almost whimpering.

“Then go ahead, baby. Push your chair back.”

Bucky shoved away from the table almost immediately – not far, but enough that Steve had a better view of how incredibly round and swollen his tummy looked, the fat lower curve of it pooled in his lap and his upper belly extremely taut-looking and stretched. The snug t-shirt had, as Steve had predicted, inched up a bit, and Bucky tugged it down absentmindedly, then sucked in a wheezy breath and let out a hiccuped burp. “Ow,” he said. “Fuck.” He draped a careful hand over the shelf of his bloated belly, and hiccuped again, screwing up his face in pain. He reached for his wine, took a couple fortifying sips. He looked drunk, on food and alcohol, his eyes at half-mast, his cheeks blazing red, his mouth hanging open as he tried to catch his breath, his huge globe of a gut settled heavy on his lap. And when had that happened, exactly? When had his belly begun sitting on his lap like this? Weeks ago, certainly, but it was more obvious than ever right now. As Steve watched, Bucky arched his back uncomfortably, still seeking relief from his impossibly tight waistband, but then suddenly he stopped moving and his eyes went wide. 

“You okay?” Steve said, instantly worried, but then he noticed that Bucky's belly was bloating outwards even further, had pushed aside the flaps of his pants like a force of nature and was mounding even more comfortably on the tops of his thighs.

“I popped the button,” Bucky said, hushed and awed. 

“You...” Steve's cock gave a mad leap. “Just now?”

“God, that feels so much better,” Bucky breathed, rubbing a gentle circle into the soft swell of his freed hip, then leaning back to pull the flaps of his pants even more open, flashing a pudgy bulge of fat underbelly. 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, staring. Bucky heaved a loud, wet belch, belly jumping with. For a while he just sat there, eyes nearly closed, rubbing his tummy. 

Then Steve said, “You know, that steak was very expensive. I hope you're not planning on wasting it.”

And Bucky tucked back in. 

It took him another forty minutes just to finish the last eight ounces of steak and quarter cup of mashed potatoes, in which time Steve had a cappuccino and escaped once to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. 

“I don't think, I've ever eaten this much, in my life,” Bucky panted. 

“Well,” Steve said, “to look at you, I would have guessed you'd been training for it.”

Bucky let out a tortured “Hurrrp,” and jammed another bite of steak into his slow-chewing mouth. He was squirming constantly in his chair, now, kept rocking side to side, leaning back and leaning forward, spreading his legs, closing them, desperate to find a position that would accommodate his fullness. Once, he pressed a cold glass of ice water to the side of his stretched belly, leaving a damp streak on his t-shirt. 

Steve watched him, so turned-on he could barely speak, and thought that as fun as it was to do this in public, it might be even nicer at home, in bed, so he could suck Bucky off while he ate – and Jesus, they hadn't even kissed yet, and already his mind was racing ahead.

When Bucky shoved the last bite of steak into his mouth, and swallowed, Steve nearly cheered. 

“Done,” Bucky gasped, and dropped his head heavily onto his hand, propped up on the table like a wheezy beached whale. 

“Good boy,” Steve said, overcome. “Bucky, that was amazing. You're – you're – ”

“Full,” Bucky mumbled. 

“Dessert?” the skinny waiter squeaked. 

And Steve nearly swooned when Bucky looked to him, so trusting.

“No, just another cappuccino and the check, thank you,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled at him gratefully. “The coffee will help,” Steve said, then frowned. “I think.” 

Bucky didn't seem capable of an answer. He didn't seem capable of much for a while besides hiccuping, wincing, wheezing, and carefully prodding at his enormously bloated stomach; rubbing it, poking it, patting it, and just holding it, trying to work through the enormous meal he'd just put away. Not to mention the bottle of red wine. When the cappuccino came he worked at it in uncharacteristically teeny sips, putting it down often, leaning his head back and sighing. Their waiter dropped their check and tiptoed around their table, charmingly unwilling to approach unless explicitly asked. 

Meanwhile, Steve kept up a quiet running commentary. 

“Look at you,” he said. “You ate so much you can barely breathe. You ate enough for a whole family. I can't believe how big you look, how big you let yourself get. First you split your pants, then you pop a button, it's unbelievable. Bet you couldn't even do one sit-up, now. Surprised you can even hold yourself upright. God, look at you, look how fat you look.”

And he did look fat. His head was slumped forward so his double chin was even more pronounced than usual, and his belly looked inflated. His hips were wide, plush, and his chunky thighs were spread and pudging out over the side of his chair. 

“You need to lie down,” Steve said. “That's what you need. Think you can waddle your fat ass outside so I can call us an Uber?”

“I think so,” Bucky said, but it took him a couple tries to heave himself out of his chair, ungainly with wine and food and weighed-down by his heavy belly. He stumbled against Steve as they walked out, shameless in his unbuttoned pants, but he managed a smirk in the direction of their wide-eyed waiter. “My compliments to the chef,” he hiccuped. 

There was a bench right outside, and Bucky thumped down immediately to wait for the Uber, closing his eyes and turning his face up into the cool night air. Steve stroked his cheek once, and Bucky's eyes fluttered open, meeting Steve's. His lips parted. Steve stroked his hot, pudgy cheek again, leaned down, and kissed him.

It was an amazing kiss. Familiar and completely new, warm and sweet and hot and dirty, Bucky's mouth opening beneath his like a gift, tasting of salt and steak, moaning a little into Steve's mouth as the kiss deepened – so deep that soon Steve was practically straddling Bucky's wide hips, Bucky's bloated belly bumping into Steve's torso, his hand clutching Steve's shirt, desperate. 

Behind them, the Uber driver honked. They broke apart, grinning, Bucky breathless and panting again, and Steve offered him his hand to help haul him to his feet. 

“Let's get you home,” Steve said. 

In the car, Bucky slumped tiredly against Steve's side, arm wrapped protectively around his belly, and Steve slung his own arm around Bucky's shoulders, dropped his hand carefully onto the apex of Bucky's poor overtaxed gut. He stroked it gently, light touches like he'd seen Bucky use to soothe himself, rubbing circles around Bucky's stretched belly button, pushing in a little on the sides where Bucky's belly was bulging outwards.

“What're we gonna tell the others?” Bucky murmured, turning his face sweetly up to Steve's, and Steve couldn't help but kiss him on the mouth again. 

“Whatever you want,” Steve said. 

“Let's keep it between us, for now,” Bucky said. “Not 'cause I don't wanna shout this from the rooftops, but... I don't know... feels special, right now. Feels secret. Safe.”

“Okay,” Steve said, and kissed him again. 

They had to run the roommate gauntlet almost instantly: all three of them, Sam, Nat and Clint, were in the living room, watching some kind of baking show, go figure. 

“Hey,” Steve said, casually. Bucky hung behind him a little, but he echoed, “Hey.”

“What've you guys been up to?” Sam said, then his eyes widened. Nat started giggling, and Clint grinned, enthusiastically made the “chubby” sign they all knew so well by now. Clearly they'd caught sight of Bucky and his unbuttoned pants. 

“We had dinner,” Bucky said, and patted his swollen belly. “I might've overdone it.”

“He popped his button,” Steve blurted out. “Right in the middle of the pizzeria.”

“I need to go lie down,” Bucky said, and lurched towards the stairs. Steve waited, so it wouldn't seem too obvious that he was going up with him, but his whole body yearned to rush to Bucky's side. He could hear his heavy, dragging footsteps thumping up the stairs.

“What the hell did he eat?” Nat said. “A horse? He looks like he's gonna pop.”

“You know Bucky,” Steve said, shaking his head. “He doesn't know when to quit.”

“He has packed. It. On!” Sam said. 

“Hey, I tried to stop him,” Steve said, hands up. “But you guys are always telling me to quit nagging him.”

“You should quit nagging him,” Sam said. “Doesn't mean he hasn't blown up like the Michelin man.”

“He likes eating,” Clint said. “I like archery, Nat likes vibrators, Sam likes heart-to-hearts, Bucky likes eating. Whatever.”

“I'm gonna bring him an Alka-Seltzer,” Steve said. 

“What a good friend you are,” Nat said, staring at him unblinkingly. Steve blushed to the roots of his hair, and beat a hasty retreat upstairs.

Bucky was propped up in his bed, pillows stacked behind his back, jeans shucked off, too-tight boxers cutting into his flabby thighs. His t-shirt was rucked up beneath his pecs – the first time Steve had seen his bare belly, and he had to stop and goggle for a moment at the sight. It was huge. It rounded up on his lap and was striped with pink stretchmarks, his sides two fat bulges, his belly button a wide, deep hollow. He was rubbing it, digging the heel of his hand in, and Steve could hear it gurgle even from the doorway. 

“I brought you some Alka-Seltzer,” he said, stupidly.

“Bring me a belly rub,” Bucky groaned, and Steve didn't need to be told twice. He shut the door behind him and came to sit by Bucky's prone form. He trailed a hand up one of Bucky's chubby thighs, pinching the soft skin gently, then dragging his fingertips across the fat swell of underbelly that obscured the waistband of Bucky's boxers. Bucky drank the Alka-Seltzer while Steve explored the vast expanse of his gut, the delicate golden hairs, the painful-looking stretch marks, the wide belly button. He rubbed, and fondled, and squeezed, and Bucky sighed beneath his hand like a cat. And then, slowly, slowly, Bucky began to get hard, and started to buck up a little into Steve's petting hand. 

“Let's get this off,” Steve murmured, tugging on Bucky's t-shirt, and Bucky let him pull it over his head. His pecs, round and pudgy like perky breasts, were also stretch-marked, and his pink nipples peaked hard and round beneath Steve's fingers. There were folds of fat at the sides of his chest, and another deep crease at Bucky's waist, and Steve leaned to kiss them, to feel that silky skin. “Boxers,” he said, and Bucky grunted as he hoisted his hips just enough to let Steve peel down his tight boxers, letting his fat thighs expand outwards and his fat cock spring upwards to hit the underside of his belly, leaving a wet smear of pre-cum. 

Now Bucky was naked and round and messy beneath him, and Steve was still fully-dressed, not a hair out of place. 

“Stand up,” Steve said. “Let me see that fat ass of yours.”

Bucky, though clearly still full to move comfortably, swung his legs heavily over the side of the bed and rocked back and forth in order to heave himself upwards. His ass was perfect: round, plump, and dimpled like a peach, and Steve gave it a loving squeeze and then a hard slap. “Back in bed,” he said, and Bucky fell back onto the bed gratefully. 

Steve leaned over him and they kissed for a while, Bucky naked and writhing, Steve still clothed but with his hard cock beginning to leak painfully inside his jeans. He rubbed his hands up and down Bucky's beautiful, fat form, cupped his pecs, squeezed his gut, gripped handfuls of his hips and stroked his soft thighs. Then he broke away from Bucky's mouth and began kissing lower, kissing all down the slope of Bucky's round belly, tonguing those pink stretchmarks, biting gently at the softer pudge of his underbelly, sucking marks into the white skin of his thighs, and finally closing his head around the silky-hot head of Bucky's glorious cock. 

“Oh my god,” Bucky said, his hips snapping.

“Don't move,” Steve said, and Bucky immediately stilled.

Steve swallowed him down, licking the length of him and then lathing his tongue in circles around the head of his cock, sucking and kissing and flicking with his tongue until Bucky was gasping for breath and biting his own fist to stifle his needy moans. 

“Steve, Steve, I'm gonna,” Bucky said.

“No,” Steve said, and pulled away. “Not yet.”

“Oh jesus,” Bucky said, shuddering with the effort not to come, “oh jesus Stevie please, please --”

“No,” Steve said, and knelt over him, watching him fight, watching his belly quiver and his muscles clench desperately. He waited for Bucky to calm down, and then he kissed Bucky's pudgy neck and began slowly moving his mouth southward again, going very slowly, until finally he was back at Bucky's flushed cock. He started sucking again, with finesse, rolling Bucky's balls in one hand and kneading his bloated belly with the other. 

“Oh god,” Bucky was saying, “oh god oh god oh god Steve please, please, I'm --”

Just when he sounded most desperate, Steve pulled back and said, very sharply, “No.”

Immediately Bucky's entire body went rigid with panicked effort, trying to stamp down on the desperate wave that threatened to flood him. His eyes were screwed shut, tears starting in the corners of his lashes, and Steve crouched above him and watched again, watched Bucky struggling not to come apart beneath him. When he'd calmed down sufficiently, Steve started the whole thing over again, from Bucky's soft jawline to his hard cock. 

Bucky was clearly riding a crazy edge, gasping and shaking, biting his lip so hard Steve was worried he'd start bleeding. His hand was fisted in the bed spread, his body held obediently still except where his muscles shook with the intensity of sensation and his belly quivered. 

“You were a good boy tonight,” Steve said, pausing to look up at Bucky over the swell of his gut. Bucky's pupils were blown wide, all black. “Did you like being a good boy for me?”

“Yes,” Bucky gasped, “yes yes yes.”

“You're such a good, fat little piggy,” Steve said. “Eating so much you can barely walk. Can you feel how fat you're getting?”

“I can feel it,” Bucky panted.

“Say it.”

“I'm getting fat,” Bucky chanted, “I'm getting so fucking fat, Stevie.”

“What part of you is getting fat, Buck?”

“All of me,” Bucky said, “all of me, my face, my arm, my tits, my gut, my ass, all of me.”

“And you'll get even fatter, won't you.”

“Yes, yes.”

“You'll be a good boy for me.”

“Yes, I'll be so good, I'll be the best.”

Steve smacked him hard across his belly, and Bucky moaned. Then Steve bent to kiss the red skin where his hand had been. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and wrapped a fist around Bucky's cock. “Say please.”

“Please please please oh god oh please.”

Steve was jacking him off in earnest now, their eyes locked together, Bucky's eyelashes fluttering, his mouth open, his whole body shaking. 

“Are you ready?” Steve said.

“I'm ready, I'm ready, please god, please --”

“Okay,” Steve murmured. “Come.”

And Bucky did. Explosively. All over Steve's hand and his own gut, letting out a roar of pleasure so loud that Steve was sure their roommates could hear it even over the television. Steve worked him through his orgasm, kissing his face and his neck and his belly as Bucky quaked and twitched and then finally fell limp, going totally boneless all at once. For a long time, he was silent, fighting to get his breath back. 

“Jesuschrist,” Bucky slurred, finally. His eyes were still rolled back in his head. “Stevie that was... oh my god I'm... jesuschrist.”

“You like that?” Steve purred. 

“I... I can't even... fuck, Stevie.” He managed to focus. “You're still dressed, and I'm – c'mere, let me...”

“You can barely lift your arm,” Steve said, stroking Bucky's sweaty hair away from his face. He was wrapped around him, lazily humping his hip, his cock chafing almost-unpleasantly in his jeans, just this side of pleasurable. 

“Can too,” Bucky said, and managed to fumble for Steve's fly, grunting a little as he tried to shift his bloated body. He got the zipper down and was tugging at Steve's boxers, but Steve batted him away. 

“Shh, baby, just lie there,” Steve said, and knelt above him again, Bucky's eyes locked on him hungrily. Slowly, he pushed his jeans and boxers down around his ass. At the sight of his proud, flushed cock, Bucky reflexively licked his lips. “Think you can eat just one more thing tonight?” Steve said. 

“Definitely,” Bucky said, and Steve stood to take his pants the rest of the way off. 

“You want me to take this off, too?” Steve said, plucking at his button-up.

“God, please.”

And then Steve was naked, and he crawled back on the bed and moved to straddle Bucky's face. “C'mon, baby,” he said, and fed Bucky his dick, inch by inch. Bucky took it greedily, wide pink mouth opening eagerly, tongue running along the vein and then twisting around the head so Steve gasped a little and shuddered. Bucky's mouth worked skillfully, his cheeks hollowing in and out, his soft jawline quivering, his nose flaring, saliva gathering on his lips and then running out down his double chin. 

“Fuck,” Steve blurted, arching his back, “oh jesus, Buck, that's good, that's – oh christ, I'm --”

And he came, much sooner than he'd planned to, with one unbelievable jolt of pleasure that shortwaved his brain and nearly crossed his eyes. He could feel Bucky's lips still locked around him, sucking down his come like he sucked down milkshakes, and little aftershocks of delight were shooting through his whole body.

He rolled off Bucky, then slid down to lie next to him. Bucky wriggled around a little, grunting, then managed to turn onto his side, snuggling up into the crook of Steve's neck, his arm twined around Steve's chest, his belly pressing into and overlapping his hip, all soft and warm and content. 

“So,” Bucky said, nipping at the skin of Steve's collarbone.

“So,” Steve agreed.

“Why haven't we been doing that this whole time?”

“I don't know,” Steve said. “But we've got a lot of years to make up for.”

“Think I'm up for the challenge,” Bucky said. 

“Oh,” Steve sighed. “Me too.”


	6. Sated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been meaning to upload this chapter for days, but kept forgetting, I'm sorry!
> 
> Thanks a million to everyone who read this story, especially ye who commented or kudos'd it. It is always so nice to know that one is not alone in one's guiltiest of pleasures. And thank you again to the two brilliant writers responsible for the prompt.

“Bucky,” Darcy said, poking her head around the wall of his cubicle. “This entire place smells like peanut butter. Either share, or put those away.”

“Oh, sorry,” Bucky said, through a thick mouthful of peanut butter brownie bars, and offered the heavy tupperware to her. “Have one! Steve made 'em.”

“Don't mind if I do,” Darcy said, coming to lean against his desk. “Oh, what the fuck, these are delicious.”

“Right?” Bucky said, unsticking another from the stack. “My boy can bake.”

“Excuse me?” Darcy said, stopping mid-chew. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said, stuffing a brownie into his mouth nearly whole.

“You said MY boy. MY boy. I knew it! I fucking knew it, didn't I know it? Didn't I call it?” She pointed a chocolatey finger at him in triumph. “I totally called it! You two are boning hardcore, just try and deny it!”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky mumbled, blushing. He swallowed his sticky mouthful. “But Darce, it's a secret, okay? It's only been a coupla weeks and we're trying to keep it quiet.”

“Who'm I gonna tell?” Darcy said with an incredulous look. “Phil? You're scared I'm gonna tell Phil?”

“Don't tell Phil. Don't tell anyone!”

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky,” she said. “Sweet Bucky. I knew you and Steve were an item before you did – and I've never even met the guy! You think your friends aren't gonna find out? You think they don't already know?”

“You've never met Steve?” Bucky said, frowning.

“I mean, I follow him on Instagram, but no, I've never actually set eyes on the guy. And don't change the subject.”

Bucky tugged down his snug t-shirt, plucked another brownie from the tupperware and began munching. “I know they'll find out eventually,” he said between big bites. “Just... it's the honeymoon phase, y'know? I don't want to share that with anyone.”

“Aww,” Darcy said, melting. “Except me. You're sharing your honeymoon brownies with me.”

“I mean, I'm not a monster,” Bucky said, licking his fingers and helping himself to another brownie. Darcy was staring.

“I can't believe I'm asking you this after I just saw you hoover all that chocolate, but we're gonna go down and get tacos in a bit, you want to come? Of course you do.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, laughing a little. “Gonna need some salt to wash down all this sugar.”

“Pretty sure that's not how it works, but whatever gets you through the night.” She hopped off his desk and patted him on the shoulder. “I'll come grab you in a half hour or so. Enjoy the rest of those.”

One of the biggest problems with having one arm was that Bucky couldn't eat and type at the same time. He took another brownie, poking at the keyboard with his pinky finger so he could scroll down and keep reading the report he'd been working on. He was pretty full, if he was being honest with himself, but not too uncomfortable yet. His new jeans helped a lot: they were black denim – “slimming,” Steve joked – and the waistband was roomy enough that he needed a belt. The buckle was digging into his sensitive underbelly, though, and he grimaced a little as he tried to adjust it. He had to suck his belly in and really lean back in order to access it, and he had a zingy little flashback of the night before, when Steve had gently hefted up his belly to get at his zipper. 

He huffed a breath and reached for another brownie. He was under strict orders to finish them by 1pm, and it was almost 12:45. He could feel the chocolate and peanut-butter weighing heavily in his belly, and scooted his ass back in his chair so he could spread his thighs and let his belly breathe better. He felt like he'd gained five pounds just in the past week alone. Steve was tireless, always ordering food on him, goading him on in front of their roommates, always teasing him until he was hungry for anything, for touch, for sex, for snacks, anything. The night before, he'd eaten two entire medium meat-lover's pizzas while Sam, Nat and Clint had looked on in mingled alarm and awe. Not to mention the pint of cookie dough he'd put away secretly later that night, shoving mouthfuls of ice cream down his throat while Steve went down on him, hiccuping and belching even as he came, his whole body shaking. 

That very morning, he'd eaten five sausage-egg mcmuffins and three orders of hashbrowns while Steve jacked him off in the McDonalds parking lot. And now the brownies. 

And now –

“Tacos?” Darcy said, as Bucky licked the last trace of chocolate from his lips. 

“I'll come down in a second,” Bucky said. 

“You did not eat all those brownies.” It wasn't a question.

“What? It wasn't that many,” Bucky said. As if to one-up him, his stomach let out a pained gurgle. 

Darcy shook her head, marveling. “I want your life.”

As soon as she'd disappeared, Bucky got out his phone and snapped a picture of the empty tupperware, then snapped a quick selfie of his belly, bloated and straining the confines of his tight tee. He sent them both to Steve with a smiley face and the message, “Taco time.”

“Time for a steak burrito and two chicken quesadillas, you mean,” Steve texted back. “No tacos today.”

“Stevie that's a lot,” Bucky texted worriedly. “Their burritos are huge.”

“So are you.”

Sighing, Bucky put his phone back in his pocket, and slapped a hand on the arm of his chair to help hoist himself up. He'd put on weight these past two weeks, for sure. He could feel it. His belly rumbled, trying to work through those brownies, and Bucky pulled his shirt down again, made his way to the elevator. It was only one flight down, but he didn't feel like the stairs – never felt like the stairs, these days. 

The inside of the elevator was mirrored, and Bucky took the opportunity to check out the rear view. His ass was getting seriously fat, round and obvious even in his loose new jeans. His back was pretty wide, too, his love handles wrapping around in one big roll, and his broad shoulders stretched his shirt. Of course, his belly had taken the brunt of his gain, and it was finally beginning to hint at a coming sag – more proof he'd put on weight! The bottom was wider and fatter than the top, though the whole thing was extraordinarily round, and his jawline had gotten even cushier, his double chin even pudgier. His pecs were two fat handfuls that rested right on his gut. 

He snapped another selfie for Steve in the mirror. Steve responded with a mirror-selfie of his own: barbell in one hand, phone in the other, his gorgeous body perfectly sculpted and rippling, his smile golden-bright and all for Bucky. Bucky couldn't help but sigh a little, like a twelve year-old girl. 

Outside, he saw Phil and Darcy sitting at a picnic table in the sun, and he ordered his big meal and took his food over to join them. They'd just started in on their own lunches, and Bucky thunked down his tray and scooted into the picnic table next to Darcy. His belly pushed uncomfortably into the edge of the table, so he spread his legs wider and moved back, though that left part of his ass hanging off the bench. Preferable to tummy-splinters, though. 

“Darcy tells me you've got a new boyfriend,” Phil said, with one of his sweet smiles. 

“Darcy!” Bucky said. 

“What?” Darcy said. “I didn't tell him it was Steve. Whoops, now I did.”

“I think it's great,” Phil said. “Always better to be friends first. What does Steve do, again?”

“He works at a gym,” Bucky said, unwrapping his burrito and taking a big bite. “Personal trainer.”

“Doesn't take his work home with him, clearly,” Darcy said, and Phil snorted a helpless laugh. 

“Nope, he definitely does not,” Bucky said, and stuffed another enormous bite into his mouth. God, these burritos were huge, as thick around as his forearm and heavy with beef and cheese. On top of the brownies, lunch was going to be a bit of a struggle. He was already pretty full, belly feeling tight, but he wasn't achy or out of breath yet, so he was doing pretty well, all things considered. He let Darcy and Phil gossip about office politics, and concentrated on mainlining the Mexican food. 

By the end of the burrito, his stomach was sitting heavy and bloated in his lap, and the aches had set in. He paused for a rest before attempting the quesadillas, and pushed gently on the stretched side of his belly. It gurgled, and obligingly sent up a wet chocolate-flavored belch, which he hid behind his hand. “Scuse me,” he said. That felt a little better already, and he peeled the foil off his first quesadilla. It was so much smaller than the burrito, so much thinner; he could probably finish it off in five bites, if he tried. 

He tried. He succeeded. He'd had to unhinge his jaw a little to get the last giant bite crammed in there, but he'd gotten one quesadilla down, just one more to go. Darcy was still nibbling her third taco, and Phil was finishing up some chips and guacamole. He had plenty of time. 

Christ, he was full, though. His tummy ached fiercely, and it felt distended by bloat; even a few resounding belches didn't seem to clear him any room. He patted the top curve of it, then leaned back and smoothed his hand across the sore place it'd been pressed against the table's edge. Even his belly button hurt, felt stretched and itchy. He couldn't get a deep breath. With a heavy hand, he unwrapped the second and last quesadilla and took a bite, panting a little around the mouthful. 

“You okay there, killer?” Darcy said.

“Great,” Bucky said, and then, “My eyes were bigger than my stomach today. And that's saying something.”

“You don't have to finish it,” Darcy said. 

“I grew up poor,” Bucky said. “Where I'm from, you finish your food.”

“That explains so much,” she said, poking him in his fat gut. 

“Oof,” Bucky said. “Gently, please.” He blew out a hard breath, and took another bite of his quesadilla. It tasted so fucking good, all crisp and cheesy with salty marinated chicken, but the thought of more food sliding down his throat and landing on the heavy pile he'd already packed in there was painful. He belched, ripped off another bite. He imagined he was a savage hyena, stuffing himself with a freshly-killed deer, all animal hunger, no time for pesky concerns like stomachaches or gas. He forced down another bite. 

“Hoo boy,” he said, out loud despite himself. He was wheezing audibly now. Three more bites to go. He shoved them down fast so he wouldn't have time to think about them, and then sat there, panting, greasy hand resting on his belly. He was too stuffed to worry about leaving fingerprints right now. How could something that hurt so much feel so good, too? His heavy tummy was settled in between his thighs and weighing on the base of his dick, sending little happy zings of pleasure from his balls to his toes. Like always after a good stuffing, he felt sort of stoned. 

“We're gonna have to hustle to get back in time for the meeting,” Darcy said, and Bucky tried not to groan. Hustling sounded like a horribly movement. But he had no choice. He pushed himself precariously upwards and shuffled over to the trash can with his wrappers, then shuffled after Phil and Darcy, hand pressed tight against his belly right at his belly-button, as if he could hold himself together, literally, keep himself from bursting. He felt so big and swollen it was painful to walk. 

“You two go on,” he said, when they led him to the base of the stairs. “I'm gonna take the elevator.”

“You're my hero,” Darcy said, and she and Phil hurried easily up the staircase while Bucky padded heavily over to the elevator. Inside, he took another selfie – for Steve, ostensibly, but also to see if there was any difference before and after his big meal. There was: he looked rounder, and redder, and sweatier. 

Steve sent back a picture of his hard dick in his basketball shorts, and Bucky nearly humped a wall. 

This was his life now, and god, he loved it. 

:::

“You've gotten fatter,” Steve said, the next evening. He said it very quietly as he leaned to set down a plate of cheese and crackers on the table in front of Bucky. Nat was at the stove, humming as she stirred a big pot of something meaty and Russian, and Bucky was settled comfortably at the kitchen table with a beer.

“I know,” Bucky said just as quietly, reaching for the bread. “And it's all your fault.”

“My fault?” Steve whispered, his breath hot in the shell of Bucky's ear. Natasha didn't notice, didn't turn around. “I'm not the one eating two pizzas in one sitting. I'm not the one sneaking away at 4am for a snack. I'm not the one whose belly starts growling an hour after I've put away a family-size Stouffers mac and cheese. Whose fault is it, again, Bucky? Whose fault is it you've gotten so fat?”

“My fault,” Bucky said, flushing. 

“That's right,” Steve said, and then, in a louder, normal volume: “You want another beer, Buck?”

“Sure,” Bucky said, and enjoyed watching the little flex of Steve's strong forearms as he popped the caps off three beers; for Bucky, for himself, and for Natasha, who took hers and absentmindedly poured a couple glugs into the pot before sipping it. Steve glanced at her oblivious back, then reached down and ran a hand through Bucky's hair, thumbed the pudge under his chin and smiled down at him with that soft Steve Rogers puppy-dog affection that had Bucky's heart swelling to twice its normal size. 

“Smells good,” Sam said from the doorway, and Steve startled so hard some beer sloshed out the mouth of the bottle he was holding and onto Bucky's arm. Bucky couldn't help but laugh. Sam looked from one to the other, eyebrow raised, then seemed to forget about it. Bucky was pretty sure he hadn't seen anything, anyway. “What's for dinner?” Sam said. 

“Animals,” Natasha said. 

“All righty,” Sam said, and plonked himself down next to Bucky. Steve handed him a beer and took a seat next to him, and a couple minutes later Clint wandered in, too, and the three of them got wrapped up in a heated conversation about some new archery-based upper-body workout that Steve wanted to try to implement at the gym. Bucky chewed cheese and crackers and stared at Steve's hands and counted down the hours until the rest of the house had gone to sleep, and they could be alone. Secretly dating your roommate/best friend was more exhausting than he'd thought it'd be.

Natasha's “animal” stew was fucking delicious, especially piled with sour cream and sopped up with thick slices of buttered brown bread. Bucky had three big bowls of it and most of a loaf of bread, which he'd coated with nearly a whole stick of butter. He was full by the end of the meal, but not too full. Rather, he was comfortably stuffed, his belly getting tight, his breathing short but not labored, and he settled back happily in his chair with his beer, resting the bottle's bottom on the swell of his belly. The cold glass felt good against his warm skin. 

Of course, that was when Steve ladled the last of the stew into Bucky's bowl and said, “Eat this, I need to wash the pot.”

He wasn't quite as comfortable once that fourth bowl was in his belly, and he sighed, cupping his swollen tummy and running his thumb consolingly along the fat lower curve of it. His shirt (a new one, long-sleeved, dark blue) fit well enough that he hadn't had to tug it down all evening, but it pulled pretty tight across his belly; probably he could've gone up a size. The weight he'd put on recently was really making itself known, and he was starting to feel truly heavy, disinclined to move except for the slow up-and-down of his thumb along his gut, and his whole body felt flushed and overheated. 

“It's fucking hot in here,” he said. “Aren't you guys hot?”

“I'm a little chilly, actually,” Nat said. 

“I guess I'm pretty well insulated,” Bucky said, catching Steve's eye. He made a little show of stretching, letting his shirt start to ride up but not quite enough to show skin, his tummy rounding out and then resettling in his lap. He patted the side of his gut, let out another little sigh, poked at his belly button where his shirt was outlining it, all the while staring straight at Steve. Steve, who was turning a gratifying shade of delicate pink. “I mean, Nat, you're, what, one-fifteen, one-twenty?” Bucky continued. “I'm more than two of you!”

“Yeah, Nat,” Clint said. “No wonder you're cold. You're too teeny tiny to – ow!” 

Nat had calmly punched him hard in the arm. 

“Tiny but fierce,” Clint amended. 

“I hope you saved room, Bucky,” Natasha said. “Because I made dessert. Carrot cake. I made one for us –” and here she indicated herself, Sam and Clint, “and one for you and Steve.”

“For me and Steve?” Bucky said. 

“Yes,” she said. “I figure we can enjoy ours down here, and you and Steve can take yours upstairs.”

Steve let out a frankly unflattering squawk of nervous fake-laughter. “Ha! Upstairs! Ha! Why would we – I mean who would – ha, cake, upstairs, ha! Ha?”

Natasha cocked her head, expressionless, but Clint and Sam were grinning ear-to-ear.

“Look,” Sam said. “We get it. Love is beautiful. Cake is delicious.”

“What?” Bucky said. 

“Aww,” said Clint. “You really thought we didn't know?”

“Know?” Steve spluttered. 

“Give us some credit,” Natasha said. “I for one am right down the hall from your rooms. I know sex noises when I hear them. Especially Bucky's.” She winked at Steve, whose pink face went even pinker.

“Really, you and Nat?” he said to Bucky, tone a wee bit feisty.

“It was once,” Bucky said, glaring, “and we agreed never to talk about it.”

“Just admit it,” Clint coaxed. “You two are dating.”

“We're happy for you guys,” Sam said. “This was a long time coming.”

“Okay, yes,” Steve said, and gave Bucky a look of unmistakable pride. “We're, uh – we're dating.” 

It seemed like such a simple, shallow word for what they were to one another, and Bucky remembered why he'd wanted to keep this a secret in the first place: his feelings for Steve went so far beyond labels, they felt undermined by quantification and over-examination. He bit his lip, trying to look happy when Steve glanced over at him, but Steve, fucking Steve, could see right through him. 

“Dating is kind of an understatement, I guess,” Steve said, with a small, brilliant smile meant just for Bucky. “We're... together. We've always been together in some capacity, and now we're... more together. Fully together.”

This time, Bucky had no trouble smiling back. Even Natasha was grinning.

“Now that everything's out in the open,” she said, “maybe you'll stop stealing my ice cream for your weird sex games.”

“Probably not,” Bucky said. 

“How about that carrot cake, though?” Steve said. 

:::

The next morning, Sam walked into the living room and found Steve and Bucky on the couch, Steve perched sidesaddle on Bucky's lap, feeding him donuts with one hand and rubbing his full belly with the other. 

“Maybe we shoulda let you keep this under wraps, after all,” Sam said, and walked back out. 

:::

“Think you can eat a little more of this pie?” Steve said. 

“No,” Bucky groaned, his arm wrapped around his throbbing belly. 

“Yes you can,” Steve countered. “C'mon, open up, be a good boy.”

They were propped up in Steve's bed after a dinner of salad (Steve) and 2 Italian subs, cheesy fries, onion rings, and a milkshake (Bucky). Steve was in jeans and a t-shirt and Bucky in a pair of boxer-briefs, his round gut sitting stretched and almost shiny in his lap. The boxers were new, ish, from just before Steve and Bucky got together, but already they were cutting into Bucky's thighs and the waistband was digging uncomfortably into Bucky's sides and lower belly, though it was hard to tell what red marks were from the elastic and what were stretchmarks. He shifted, wincing, spreading his legs even more to give his belly room, and patted it as it gurgled and settled. He couldn't believe how round he was getting.

Though maybe it wasn't so unbelievable after all, the rate he was eating. Bucky let Steve shove another bite of pie into his mouth, even though he was so full he felt a little faint. 

“Good,” Steve said, rubbing strong circles into Bucky's fat belly. “Again.”

Bucky took a short, huffy breath, ate another bite. And another. And another. He couldn't help but grunt a little as he ate, trying to catch his breath even while Steve was sliding the spoon past his panting lips again and again. He could practically feel himself getting fatter, his tummy surging outwards, hips expanding, his double chin thickening up. He could feel it when he talked, now, that extra flab around his chin and jaw, and when he chewed. 

“One more bite, and you're done,” Steve said finally, and prodded one last enormous bite past Bucky's weary lips, kissing his neck as Bucky swallowed. 

“God, I'm full,” Bucky wheezed. “Fuck, fuck. Oh, christ.”

“Beautiful work,” Steve said, setting the empty pie tin aside and moving even closer, stroking Bucky's hair aside from his damp forehead so he could nibble briefly on Bucky's ear. “You're so good, Buck. Here, lie down some more.”

Bucky groaned as he slid from sitting to mostly-reclining, his belly sloshing and weighing heavily on him as he lay flatter.

“Do you think you behaved yourself tonight?” Steve asked, pressing his clothed torso against Bucky's bloated, bare one. He sucked on Bucky's neck and trailed his hand back and forth across Bucky's sensitive, swollen underbelly, and Bucky stammered out, 

“Yes.”

“Did you obey every word I said?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You stuffed your face like a little pig,” Steve said, and straddled Bucky's leg, slotting his knee between Bucky's plump thighs and nudging at Bucky's hardening cock. “You ate like a glutton for hours, look at you, look how fat you are, you can barely move. Are you full?”

“So fucking full,” Bucky whimpered. 

Steve pushed himself up so he was on his hands and knees, then bent to bite gently at one of Bucky's full pecs, lathing his tongue around the nipple, which peaked and ached. “Do you think you deserve a reward?”

“Yes, god, yes.”

“I didn't hear you,” Steve said, and sucked a mouthful of Bucky's fat hip, moving one hand to cup Bucky's dick, just a gentle pressure that drove Bucky crazy. 

“Yes, please, Stevie, please.”

“You want me to ride you?”

“Fuck yes, please.”

Steve tucked a finger into Bucky's too-tight boxers, folded down his waistband very slowly and took a moment to press a kiss to the deep lines left right below the lower curve of Bucky's round belly. “Are these comfortable?” Steve said, peeling them down around Bucky's big ass and thighs. 

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'm too – god – too fat for 'em.” Bucky was having some trouble concentrating. He was completely naked now, and Steve was sucking kisses into the soft skin beneath his belly button, his mouth moving lower and lower but avoiding Bucky's hard cock where it strained against his stomach. 

“Yes,” Steve said, and put a big warm palm on Bucky's tummy, gave it a jiggle. Bucky let out an agonized belch, and reached down to clutch at his aching gut, but Steve batted his hand away. “No touching,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Please,” Bucky said, “a little pressure --”

“Where?”

“On the top, the top.”

Steve straddled him, grinding up against Bucky's dick, his own cock hard in his jeans, and he began kneading Bucky's belly like a cat, strong fingers working over the firm bloat. “This good?”

“Yes, perfect. God.”

Steve kept up the rhythm for awhile, a steady grind of his hips and the flex of his beautiful fingers, until finally Bucky's arousal won out over his fullness and he began to rock his groin back against Steve's, though the movement jostled his poor stuffed gut. 

Steve let his fingers slow, then danced them across the wide circumference of Bucky's stretched belly and pinched the roll on his hips, then scooted back a little and took Bucky's hard, leaking cock in his fist and worked it up and down a few times, his hand bouncing off the turgid dome of Bucky's gut. Bucky's hand flexed uncontrollably at his side, his fingers longing to touch himself or Steve or something, anything. 

“Please,” Bucky said, “Stevie, please.”

“What?” Steve said gently. “What do you want?”

“Wanna see you, wanna feel you.”

Steve leaned forward, careful of Bucky's full belly, and kissed him soft and sweet across the mouth, then sat back again and peeled off his shirt. He was all hard planes and chiseled corners to Bucky's soft roundness, and Bucky reached up towards him before he remembered his orders and dropped his yearning hand, nearly moaning at how bad he wanted to touch that golden skin. Steve, still kneeling above him, undid his pants button, then paused to kick off his jeans and boxers until he, too, was finally unclothed, all that firm glowing skin like a buffet spread out just for Bucky. He grabbed the lube from the bedside table and began working himself open intently, and at the sight Bucky's hand strayed to his own cock as if it had a mind of its own.

“No,” Steve said sharply, and Bucky dropped his hand, fingers flexing again with how badly he wanted to touch himself. Finally Steve straddled Bucky's hips again and began slowly fisting Bucky's cock with his lubed-up hand, twisting at the end just the way Bucky liked it, getting his dick rock-hard before he positioned it at his hole and lowered himself slowly down. 

“Fuck,” Bucky gasped, feeling Steve's tight heat envelop him.

“You can touch me now,” Steve said, his voice ragged, and Bucky didn't need to be told twice. He gripped Steve's thigh, grabbed a handful of his ass, reached up and smoothed a hand down his firm pecs, tweaking the pretty pink nipples standing at attention there. His belly was too big to reach Steve's cock, anymore, but that didn't matter, because his gut did the work for him: with every up-and-down, Steve's cock dragged against the soft curve of Bucky's gut. Steve had one hand on Bucky's belly, one hand gripping his fat hip, supporting himself as he rode Bucky's cock up and down, and it hurt but it felt so good, too. His whole being was focused on the hot velvety-tight feel of Steve's ass around his dick, and waves of pleasure crashed through his body, his limbs beginning to tremble.

Steve smacked Bucky's gut, hard, and said, “You like that?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You like being so,” Steve's breath faltered, “so big you can't see your own cock?”

“God, yes.”

“So lazy, you just – f-fuck – you just lie there while I do all, aah, all the work?”

“Yes, yes, Steve, oh jesus, oh shit, I'm --”

“You gonna come,” Steve was panting, “without permission, Buck?”

“N-no, no, I – oh god --”

“You were so – ahh – so good tonight, honey,” Steve said, and his ass clenched even tighter around Bucky's dick. “Go ahead, go on, come.”

And Bucky did, gasping and shuddering, followed a moment later by Steve, who came all over Bucky's jiggling belly. 

:::

For the first six months they were sleeping together, Steve wouldn't let Bucky buy new clothes, and he wouldn't let him weigh himself. 

“Go by feel,” Steve said. “Do you feel you're getting bigger?”

The answer, obviously, was yes. His belly was swelling forward and tightening all his t-shirts, fucking again, and his jeans getting snug around the waist and straining across the seat and compressing his thighs. Then his shirts started riding up in that familiar way, creeping upwards on the heavy curve of his gut and working themselves over the fleshy rise of his hips. He couldn't button his jeans. Then he couldn't zip them. His belly began to nudge the edge of his work desk, and it was taking up more and more of his lap, a heavy ball that was soft in the morning but taut by the end of a long day's eating. It settled in between his thighs when he sat, or mounded up uncomfortably, and when he stood it jutted out heavy and incredibly round in front of him, still mostly perky but starting to sag at the bottom, especially in the morning before he'd started filling it. He started having trouble tying his shoes in the morning; he had to spread his legs wide to let his belly dip between them, and when he came up he was red-faced and out of breath. His sides pressed into the arms of his chair at work. He found himself dropping heavily down when he sat, giving little involuntary “Oofs,” and he had a bit of trouble standing up from low couches, like the one in their living room. He had to rock back and forth to get up some momentum, his belly leading the way. He couldn't wrap his arm around himself to buckle his own seatbelt anymore; someone else had to do it. Sometimes he'd look down at himself at work, at the heavy, sloped dome of his tummy beneath his ill-fitting t-shirt, his thighs straining his too-tight sweatpants, and he'd feel awestruck at how big he'd gotten, how heavy. 

He couldn't remember ever being happier. 

On their 6-month date-iversary, Steve led him to the full-length mirror in his bedroom.

“Look at yourself,” Steve said. “Two years ago you were in better shape than I am, and now? What happened to you?”

“I got fat,” Bucky said in satisfaction. He'd never get tired of seeing him and Steve together, Steve so strong and slim, carved from pure marble, Bucky's own body dwarfing his, wide all over where Steve was trim, round where Steve was flat. Despite his muscles Steve looked almost delicate standing next to Bucky. 

“Which parts of you got fat?” Steve urged, his back pressed against Bucky's body, dick already semi-hard and nudging Bucky's ass. 

“Well,” Bucky said, gazing into the mirror, cataloguing. “My face.”

“What about your face?”

“My cheeks are fuller,” Bucky said, “and I have, um, I have a double chin.”

Steve stroked his cheeks, kissed his double chin. “Yup. And?”

“My neck's gotten kind of pudgy.”

Steve sucked a kiss into his neck. “Yeah. What else?”

“My arm's gotten softer, especially up top, it's getting pretty chunky.”

Steve pushed up his sleeve, pinched the flesh there. “Right.”

“My chest is really soft,” Bucky said. “My tits are round, and there's this roll that goes around to my back.”

Steve cupped Bucky's pecs through his t-shirt, thumbs brushing over his nipples. 

“My belly, obviously,” Bucky said. “Jesus, I look like I swallowed a beach ball. It's so fucking heavy, keeps getting in my way.”

Steve patted the top curve of Bucky's tummy, then slid his hands down the round sides to the hem of his t-shirt, and pulled it up a little so he could squeeze his fat underbelly. “Arm up,” he said, and Bucky obeyed. Steve peeled him out of his t-shirt, threw it on the floor. “Keep talking,” Steve said. 

“I have stretchmarks,” Bucky said, and Steve traced them with his fingers. They crazed up the round swell of his belly and raked down his sides. “My hips got pretty fat, too,” Bucky said, and Steve gripped the chunky roll of them where they sloped over his jeans. Then he got a grip on the waistband of Bucky's sweatpants and began tugging them down. They were so tight that Bucky had to shimmy a little to help him get them over his ass, his belly bouncing as he did so, and he put his hand on Steve's shoulder for balance as he stepped out of them. 

“Going commando, huh?” Steve said, delivering a ringing slap to Bucky's ass. Bucky's belly jiggled in response. 

“My underwear's all too tight,” Bucky said, admiring his own cock in the mirror, which he didn't get to see much, anymore, unless he was looking in a mirror; his belly mostly obscured his personal view. It was rising gamely in the shadow of his big round gut.

“Are you surprised?”

“No,” Bucky said. “I mean, look how fat my ass got. And my thighs are getting really thick, too. My ankles look a little chubbier than I remember. My feet, even.”

Steve smacked his ass again, then grabbed it more gently, fingers digging into the peachy swells. He plastered himself to Bucky's side, one hand still on Bucky's ass, the other caressing the sphere of his belly, hefting its globular weight in one hand. “God, I love you like this,” Steve said. 

“What, naked?”

“That, too,” Steve said. “But no. Big. I love you big. I mean, I'd love you small, too, but this?” He traced the swollen curve of Bucky's hip, how his belly pushed his sides out over his pelvis. “This... this is just fuckin' gorgeous. Look at you. So round. So soft.”

“So heavy,” Bucky said, and Steve nipped at the corner of his mouth, then kissed him fully, hot and a little messy. Bucky reached out to grab him, but Steve stepped back.

“Not yet,” he said. “Put your clothes back on.”

Bucky leaned down over his belly to get his t-shirt and sweatpants, grunting a little as he came back up, and he dropped heavily down onto the bed to work his t-shirt over his arm, his belly rounding out hugely on his lap. He got his sweatpants to his knees and then had to stand up again and wriggle into them, hips swaying as he hiked them back up over his chunky thighs and ass, then adjusted their too-tight waistband beneath the curve of his belly. He had to suck in a little and lean back just to get them situated, because his gut was empty and the soft undercurve was sagging just enough to cover the waistband. 

Once re-dressed, he followed Steve down the hall to the bathroom with the scale, his heart fluttering a little in anticipation. 

“Okay baby,” Steve said, once they were in the bathroom with the door closed. “Last time we did this you were, what?”

“Like you don't remember.”

“Tell me.”

“267.”

“And how much do you think you've gained since then?”

“I don't know, really,” Bucky said, hefting his belly consideringly. “I bet I cracked 300, though.”

“You think you gained thirty pounds?”

“Feels like I did,” Bucky said. “I really feel heavy these days, Stevie. Feel slow. None of my clothes fit. My belly's always bumping into shit. Look, when I try to brush my teeth my gut goes in the sink.”

“I've noticed,” Steve said, patting the bulging side of his round gut with proprietary pride. “Okay, then. Hop on.”

It had been a while since Bucky could see over his feet, so it was Steve who bent to look at the digital display of red numbers. He let out a long, low whistle.

“What?” Bucky said, craning his head in vain to look. “How much?”

“Not 300,” Steve said. 

“No?”

“No,” Steve said. “309, Bucky. You've gained forty-two pounds in six months.”

“Jesus,” Bucky said, awestruck, and sat down on the closed toilet with an audible thump. Steve came over and straddled his knees, lowered himself down so he was sitting on the few inches left of Bucky's lap, his flat belly pressed into Bucky's swollen one. He smoothed his hands over the sphere of Bucky's gut, tickled the underside of Bucky's fat pecs, then put both his hands on Bucky's cheeks. 

“You look gorgeous,” Steve said, and squished his cheeks like a grandma.

“I look fat,” Bucky said, his voice coming out a little funny from the cheek-squishing. 

“Yep,” Steve said, and stood up a little again so he could lean over Bucky's tummy and kiss him. Then he stood up, and offered Bucky his hand to pull him up. Bucky accepted it and heaved himself to his feet, feeling all 309 pounds tugging at him. “C'mon,” said Steve, and began to lead him out.

“What now?” Bucky groaned, plodding after him. “All this activity is burning calories, Steve. You don't want that, do you?”

“Oh, I'm not too worried,” Steve said. “Seeing as how I baked three cakes, and you're going to eat them all today. Excuse me, I'm going to feed them all to you. In bed. Starting now.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Oh, well, good. I'm hungry.”

“You're always hungry, fatass,” Steve said, and pushed him down onto the bed. “You don't get to be 309 pounds without a little gluttony.”

“And you had nothing to do with it,” Bucky said, grinning.

“Me? You're blaming me for this?” Steve said, jiggling Bucky's fat tummy. “Nice try, big guy. Unlike some people, I know how to control myself.”

“You do?” Bucky said innocently, and grabbed Steve's ass, yanked him closer so his jeans-clad cock was pressed into the swell of his belly. 

“Um,” Steve said. “Yes.”

“Then maybe you could teach me,” Bucky said, and Steve leaned down to kiss him, hot and sweet and full of promise.

“Anything,” Steve said. “Anything for you.”

“Especially cake?” said Bucky, and Steve started to laugh, until Bucky quieted him with another kiss. 

“You're such a fat, greedy little pig,” Steve murmured when they broke apart again.

“I love you too,” said Bucky.


End file.
